


The Hunger That Fills

by Jenetica



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Derek being an angsty party pooper, Fluff and Angst, Harry Potter References, M/M, Marvel Comics References, Non-Graphic Violence, Self-Harm, Smut, bastardization of both canons, established Stiles/Danny, lots of Derek angsting, warm bodies!au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-23
Updated: 2014-01-17
Packaged: 2017-12-24 10:54:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 39,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/939125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jenetica/pseuds/Jenetica
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The apocalypse was a funny thing. Well, at least it was to Stiles. See, everyone thought it was going to be zombies that tried to take over the Earth. No one ever expected it to be werewolves.</p><p>--</p><p>A Warm Bodies!AU, but you do NOT have to have seen/read Warm Bodies to fully understand/appreciate this fic. I've bastardized it past the point of recognition, anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, everyone! Welcome to the piteously titled "Wolf Bodies".
> 
> First order of business: if you think up a better title, comment and let me know. I'm horrible at naming things.
> 
> Like I said in the summary, this story follows the plot of the book/movie _Warm Bodies_ , but it can easily be read without knowledge of those works. That said, I strongly recommend them. 
> 
> My mythology differs from Teen Wolf canon, as do my characters. For example, the Argents do not play a significant role in Derek's backstory. If you have questions/comments/concerns, let me know!
> 
> This fic is beta'd by my awesome friend Tori (tumblr user allthoselostsocks).

The apocalypse was a funny thing. Well, at least it was to Stiles.

See, everyone thought it was going to be zombies that tried to take over the Earth. Seriously. Everyone figured that, if humans were going to turn against each other in some supernatural civil war, the dead would rise up and fight against the living. “Brains!” and all that.

Right idea, wrong species. Curse. Mutation. Whatever.

No one's a hundred percent sure about what happened. Different conspiracies have circled the camp, each more outrageous than the last: a rabid wolf impregnated a human woman (okay, sorry, but really? Come on), it's an act of God, it's the result of global warming, et cetera. People are always quick to find reasons; they are much less eager to find answers.

Personally, Stiles believed that it all started in some lab somewhere. A botched attempt at genetic splicing, resulting in one man-wolf that got out, biting every living thing in sight. Next thing you know? Boom, werewolf apocalypse.

Werewolf apocalypse. Geez. Sounded like a B-rated horror flick. But hey, isn't that the way of it? Expect World War Z, get Wolfman.

Zombies would have been a fuck of a lot easier to handle, though. Werewolves are fast, strong, and absolutely vicious. “There is no time to panic,” Sheriff Stilinski always says. “There's time to raise your weapon and fire. Wait an instant, and you're dead.” And he's right. Stiles had only been on a few raids since he turned eighteen just a couple months ago, but he'd seen enough to know that you don't fuck around with Wolves. They will fuck your shit up.

Stiles tried to remember life before the Change, but he was only a kid when people started getting bitten. He remembers the panic and the rush for safety more than anything else. Sometimes he dreams of cities, though, vast and deep like urban rainforests, stretching into the sky and all around, bustling with people. No one bustled anymore. They hurried, they clamored, they fled, but they didn't bustle. Those days were over.

But that made the world sound bleak, didn't it? And Stiles was an optimist, which, in the settlement, was like finding a four-leaf clover in a pile of hay. Or something. Stiles wasn't good at metaphors.

Life was good, really. Well, you always lost people to the raids, and food that didn't come in pellet form was a rarity, but it wasn't all bad. People still sang, and joked, and told stories. They taught and learned. They fell in love. They lived. And hey, you don't get much better than that.

School still sucked. And really, was the French Revolution THAT important, relatively speaking? Sure, everyone had to keep the human legacy going, just in case they actually won this war, but Stiles sincerely doubted anyone was going to give a fuck about Robespierre, in the end.

"Alright, guys," said Ms. Blake, turning to smile primly at the class, "who can tell me the various uses of wolfsbane?"

Now, see, THIS was a class Stiles loved. “Werewolves: Anatomy and Physiology” wasn't technically a general education course, but most students ended up taking it anyway. This class, above most anything else you learned in the community, actually taught you about werewolves. Not how to avoid them, not how to kill them; just what they _were_ , as creatures. And it was fascinating.

“Well, I mean,” Allison started, looking vaguely sheepish, "it's a poison. Both for us and them, but it affects them way more strongly." And she would know, too: her family ran an arms business before the Change, and they provided a plethora of weaponry-- including bullets laced with wolfsbane and crossbows that shot silver arrows-- for the community when they joined two years ago.

“Very good,” Ms. Blake praised, smiling brightly. That was another reason this class was awesome: Ms. Blake was a sweetheart, and you didn't find that too often in the adults, and she was fucking gorgeous to boot. “Anyone else?”

Stiles raised his hand. “If you distill it properly, essence of wolfsbane can act as a drug for Wolves.”

“Of course _you’d_ say that,” Lydia scoffed from his right. Stiles stuck his tongue out at her, defiant. Lydia was his best friend, partly because she wasn't afraid of Sheriff Stilinski, and partly because they were the only two teenagers that still appreciated discussing academia.

Stiles may or may not have started reading up on his philosophy and literature to get in Lydia's pants, of course, but eventually his crush on her faded, though the love for debating about Romantic horrors never quite faded with it.

“Can you tell me what kind of drugs you can create from wolfsbane?” Ms. Blake prompted, a knowing twinkle in her eye. Stiles threw a challenging look over at Lydia, who flipped her hair and, with a sigh, answered the question.

“It can be a powerful hallucinogenic for both Wolves and humans, though not in the fun, shrooms-y kind of way. Wolfsbane dredges up something that the consumer fears, whether it's watching your crush make out with someone else, or watching someone you love die. It's supposed to be very unpleasant.

“But that's in its untreated state. When treated with a basic solvent, wolfsbane can become an anesthetic, ranging in potency from a local numbing agent to a heavy-duty tranquilizer. When treated with an acidic solvent, wolfsbane takes on properties similar to ethanol for humans: it causes lowered inhibitions, impaired judgment, impaired motor skills, and drunken behavior.”

“Hell yeah, it does!” Greenberg cheered from the back. Stiles rolled his eyes. How Greenberg managed to survive three raids was a mystery, seeing as he only paid attention to videogames and partying. He was a walking liability, and if it weren’t for his ability to shoot a bull's eye from sixty paces, he'd be sequestered to chores duty full-time.

“Thank you, Lydia,” said Ms. Blake, pointedly ignoring Greenberg. “Anyone else?”

“Yeah,” Danny said. “Wolfsbane, along with mountain ash and silver thread, can form a barrier that Wolves can't cross. And if wolves are touching it, they can't heal properly.”

Stiles twisted in his chair to smile thinly at Danny, who pursed his lips, not-quite-smiling back. Lydia watched this exchange and sent a look at Stiles, which demanded he spill once class was over.

“Excellent!” Ms. Blake grinned. “Well, that's about it for today. Any questions?”

The class, which consisted of just the five students, filed out of the school and into the streaming sunlight. “What do you guys want to do?” Allison asked.

“I've got to help my dad with the potato crops,” said Greenberg, already peeling away from the group. “See you guys later, though!”

“Yeah, bye, Greenberg,” Danny replied, waving at his friend. Stiles' heart clenched in pity: ever since Jackson got turned, a year and a half ago, Greenberg was the only other athletic dude in their class unit. Sure, Stiles was a quick runner, but he didn't thrive on physical activity the way that Danny did. It used to be cute, how different they were. Now it was just kind of depressing.

“I promised Mom I'd help with laundry duty tonight,” Allsion said apologetically. “I should be done in a few hours, though.”

“I do not envy you,” Lydia said, wrinkling her nose. “Last time I did laundry duty, I had to clean Finstock's underwear. That was distinctly not fun.”

“Gross,” everyone said in unison. Finstock was the training commander for the raiders, and he was the most unpleasant man Stiles had ever met. It wasn't that he was particularly rude, or cruel, or anything, but he always acted like he'd just done a massive hit of cocaine (or, at least, that's what Kate, Allison's aunt, liked to say. Stiles didn't know what cocaine was, other than it apparently caused you to act like Finstock, and no thanks) and he smelled faintly of onions.

“So, Stiles,” Danny said, smiling at him hopefully, “I’ve got the afternoon off drills, and I was wondering if you’d like to head over to the bowling alley? Anthony says they managed to find some actual bowling pins on a raid.”

“Shit,” Stiles said, scrambling for an excuse story while he attempted to look put-out, “I’m, uh, helping my dad redraw border maps, now that the department store’s started to crumble. I’d totally go, but….”

“But it’s your dad,” Danny finished for him, looking disappointed. “Of course, go help. The safety of the community is our top priority. Bowling can wait.”

“Thank you,” Stiles grinned, relief and guilt flooding his system. His chagrin was real, even if the excuse wasn’t. “I promise I’ll make it up to you.” He leaned forward and pecked Danny on the cheek, right over the dimple.

“Nothing to make up,” Danny replied easily, features hardening. “You’re doing your duty, it’s the right thing to do.”

“Right,” Stiles said, guilt beginning to fade into something more bitter. “See you later.”

He strode toward the military encampment, Lydia following him with suspicious eyes. He watched Danny out of the corner of his eye, turning away from the tents as soon as Danny walked away.

Lydia waited until they were inside Stiles’ house to rip into him. “Just what was that?”

“Can we not?” Stiles begged, forcing every ounce of his exhaustion into his voice. He really didn’t want to discuss Danny right now.

“No, we cannot not,” Lydia snapped, eyes flashing. “I know for a fact that your dad doesn’t let you _near_ those maps, so spill. Why are you avoiding Danny? What’s he done?”

“Nothing,” Stiles sighed, collapsing onto the living room sofa. “He’s just… haven’t you heard him lately? ‘The safety of the community is top-priority.’ ‘You’re doing your duty.’”

“Yeah,” Lydia said, drawing the word out. “And he’s right. So what? You know that even being with you is a disregard for duties, don’t you?”

“Of course I do.” And he did: homosexual relationships weren’t strictly illegal, but they _were_ looked down upon. The youths of the community had a responsibility to reproduce, to continue the human species if the war lasted through generations. No one was ever going to tell Stiles and Danny to stop being in love, but, well, no one was going to award them any blessings, either. “I do understand, Lyd. But it’s _all_ he talks about. We used to talk about planes, and libraries, and online porn, and all of the other things we never got to experience. We used to dream together. But then we turned eighteen, and now it’s all duties and responsibilities and drills.”

Lydia was silent for a moment, which spoke volumes more than words ever could. Stiles shifted his gaze down to his hands, picking at dirt aimlessly. “Do you still love him?”

“Yes,” he replied instantly, vehemently. Danny was still _Danny_ , and Stiles doubted he would ever stop loving him. Before, when they shot the breeze about joyrides and popsicles, Danny had been a ray of sunshine, bright and joyous and radiant. Even a militant cloud of adulthood couldn’t fully shroud that kind of glow.

“Then take my word for it,” Lydia said, voice fringing on desperate. “And _love him_. Take advantage. Go bowling. Climb to the top of the apartment complex and look at the stars. You never know when—”

Her voice broke, and Stiles, guilty anew, rushed to hug her. “I’m so sorry, Lyds. You’re right. Oh, sweetheart.”

“I just miss him,” she gasped into his shoulder. “I know he was a jerk, and I know he wasn’t paying attention when he got—I miss him _so much_.”

Stiles kissed the crown of her head, feeling tears of his own crowd at the corners of his eyes. Jackson was one of the most despicable people Stiles had ever met, privileged and self-righteous in a time when those things didn’t even exist, but Lydia had loved him so deeply that it was hard to not miss him for her.

After a few minutes, Lydia pulled back, eyes a mess of black. “Why do you wear that stuff,” Stiles chided softly, rubbing at the circles of black under her eyes. “No one cares about makeup anymore.”

“You know why,” she retorted wetly, and she was right. She wore the makeup exactly _because_ no one cared about it anymore. They’d done a raid on a drug store to stock up on first aid supplies and hygiene products, but Lydia had found the makeup aisle and packed everything she could into her knapsack. She had years’ worth of mascara and lip-gloss tucked away in her room. No one cared about makeup but her, and that was why it was important.

“Yeah, yeah,” Stiles grinned, chucking her under the chin gently. “Ms. Thang’s got to be the hottest shit in town, making all the boys go crazy. I get it.”

Lydia laughed, swatting Stiles on the arm. “Fuck you. Go be in love with your boyfriend, you tool.”

“Sir, yessir!” Stiles saluted, hip checking her as he left the house.

She was right. The world was ending, humans were falling into extinction more and more every day, and Stiles had love. It didn’t matter how tarnished the love was, not anymore. He had it, and he was going to appreciate it.

And there was a line about polishing love in there, somewhere. Shut up; Stiles was still a teenager, no matter what the government said, and he could crack those jokes if he wanted to.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, everyone!
> 
> Beta'd by allthoselostsocks.
> 
> Possible trigger warnings: graphic fight scene, mild self-harm. If self-harm bothers you, you should note that it will pop up a few times. Werewolves heal quickly, so they have less inhibitions about taking out their emotions on themselves. I tried to handle it gracefully, anyway.
> 
> Thanks for reading! :)

Stiles packed his iPod and his spare underwear into his backpack, running through the well-used checklist in his mind. Gun? Check. Wolfsbane bullets? Check. Silver knife? Check. Food? Check.

Good. Stiles zipped his bag closed and made his way to the town square to watch the departure video. It was the same every time: Sheriff Stilinski, face weathered by stress and grief, would pop up on the screen they’d stolen from a football stadium, eyes the size of Volkswagens, to wish them luck and to thank them for their dedication to the cause for humanity.

It broke Stiles’ heart every time, even as it bored him. He remembered how his dad used to look, back when Mom was alive; he was happy, protective, loving. Now all of that had gone sour. The Sheriff was bitter, obsessive, and fierce. Only late at night and after a drink of rare-as-diamonds whiskey, would he soften and allow himself to mourn.

“Hey,” Danny greeted, leaning down to kiss Stiles. “You ready?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” Stiles replied, smiling warmly. Things between Danny and him were okay, now, after two months of Stiles trying hard to fix it all. Danny, bless his oblivious soul, had barely noticed the effort. He accepted Stiles’ newfound enthusiasm wholeheartedly and unquestioningly.

“Greetings, intrepid volunteers,” the video began. Stiles immediately blocked it out, focusing on the goal of the mission. Go to the pharmacy four blocks from the center of downtown, find the prescriptions written in ink on the inside of his forearm, and get out. Don’t linger over drugs they didn’t need. Don’t grab candy. Get it, get out, and get home.

“… it is you, the people that boldly travel into the city past our walls, that keep this community alive…”

_No_ , Stiles wanted to scream. _No, Dad, it’s you. You’ve done this all, for all of us. You’re the one that saved us. I love you_. 

But it wouldn’t make a difference. His dad was holed up in some dingy tent, leaning over maps he probably had memorized, pointedly _not_ watching the youths of the community leave with a 50/50 shot of coming back. He wasn’t on the screen. And he didn’t want to hear what Stiles had to say, anyway. He had no room left in his heart for hope. 

The video ended and the team strode through the opened gates, walking toward the pharmacy. It was only eight blocks away, but those were eight side streets in which to be ambushed, eight opportunities to die. The video had one thing right: raiding groups (Stiles liked to call them Away Teams, which was apparently a thing from a sci-fi show. It sounded less depressing) were intrepid. They had to be, or they wouldn’t survive.

They made it to the pharmacy with no problems. Each person had their assigned list of drugs to grab, so they got to work.

“Greenberg,” Lydia hissed angrily. “Put the game away. We are on a time-limit, you know.”

“Whatever,” Greenberg said, not even looking up from his game. “Grab them for me. Celebrex, doxycycline, amoxicillin, Vicodin, cetirizine. Not too hard.”

“Fuck you, Greenberg,” Stiles growled, moving to collect the drugs. He’d already collected his own, anyway.

“Guys, did you hear that?” Anthony asked, suddenly stiff.

Everyone froze. “I don’t hear anything,” Danny whispered.

Stiles heard a distant thud. “No, I heard something. We gotta move out.”

The team scrambled to pick up their bags, but it was too late. A wave of rolling growls filtered in through the broken windows. They’d been discovered. An instant later, a massive Wolf tore down the pharmacy door. Its face was twisted into a permanent scowl, deep furrows along it brow curving into massive, furry sideburns, fangs dripping saliva in crystalline spools. It released a mighty roar and ran for the closest human. Greenberg didn’t stand a chance. 

Stiles scurried back, ignoring his backpack. His gun was in there, but the knife was strapped to his calf. He pulled this out as quickly as possible, swiping across the throat of a Wolf that lunged for him. The Wolf fell and Stiles jammed the knife into its chest, puncturing its heart and killing it.

He looked up just in time to see Danny taken down. “NO!” he screamed before he could stop himself. Danny fell behind a counter, out of sight, and a second later, Stiles heard the unmistakable sound of flesh ripping.

His heart lurched, but he had no time to focus on that right now. Luckily for them, the Wolves attacked in small numbers. Lydia had taken down the Wolf that killed Greenberg, and was currently grappling with another. Stiles rushed to help her, desperately ignoring the wet sounds of his boyfriend getting torn to shreds.

A minute later, Stiles landed a blow to the Wolf’s shoulder, distracting it for long enough to let Lydia stab its heart. They breathed a sigh of relief before the growls reached them. They both turned, eyes widening when they saw yet another Wolf, this one even bigger than the last, snarling down at them. Lydia shrieked and dove out of the way, but Stiles was frozen in place. He could see the bright, glowing blue of the Wolf’s eyes, the sharp furls of its brow, and he couldn’t move his feet.

The Wolf swiped around his middle and Stiles closed his eyes, waiting for the pain of disembowelment to flood his system.

It didn’t.

Stiles opened his eyes and saw the dirty lines of the Wolf’s flank. He bobbed, stomach protesting the ache, and realized that the Wolf had him in a fireman’s hold. The Wolf was _carrying_ him.

Stiles raised his head and saw Lydia’s wide eyes watching him go. He waved at her weakly, shock and fear making him giddy, and smiled in what he hoped was a reassuring manner. She waved back, beginning to break down in tears, and Stiles dropped his head. He didn’t want to see Lydia cry. It made everything that much more real.

Because no one had ever been taken alive by the Wolves. And one could only imagine what horrors lay in store.

But the Wolf didn’t stop walking, and, slowly, the adrenaline in Stiles’ body started to fade. It was actually sort of hypnotic, riding on a Wolf’s shoulder, once you got past the ache of firm muscles digging into your hips. Stiles let the blood flow to his head and started to talk.

He talked about everything he could think of. He talked about traffic, and how bad it had supposedly gotten, at the end. He talked about snow, which he’d never seen but heard was beautiful. He talked about the crops, back at the community. He figured he was dead, either way, so why not waste the time with mindless chatter. It helped calm his nerves.

He avoided talking about any of the people, though. That was an agony he never thought he’d have to feel—that of leaving his friends, his teachers, his _father_ behind, and actually having the time to fully consider how much they would miss him—and he didn’t want to think about it. Better have good last thoughts than bad ones. 

After what felt like hours of travel, they reached a large rail yard. Stiles didn’t get to see the yard itself, but he saw the tracks as the Wolf walked over them. He heard distant growls, a lot of them, and began to panic. His breaths grew shorter, black spots dotting his vision. “I’m gonna die,” Stiles moaned.

The Wolf carrying him snorted and clenched Stiles’ thigh in warning. The message was clear: _stop freaking out_. Stiles closed his eyes and measured his breathing, focusing on calming down his heart.

All of that was in vain, though, because a minute later the Wolf jumped, and the world fell away in terrifying speed. Stiles yelped and clung to the Wolf’s waist, which, in hindsight, was kind of backwards, considering that it had just abducted him.

The Wolf climbed up scaffolding for about fifty feet before swinging up. Stiles’ center of gravity shifted and he clung tighter, tears leaking up his forehead and into his hair. The Wolf pulled him of its shoulder easily, Stiles’ death grip on its hips nothing compared to its supernatural strength. It placed Stiles on his feet, and Stiles instantly collapsed.

“Why am I not dead yet?” he sobbed into his hoodie. “Why can’t you just kill me and be done with it?” The Wolf stooped and the breath caught in Stiles’ throat because Things Not to Do When Your Life Is Somehow Saved, Rule Number One is _Don’t Ask Why You’re Still Alive, You Colossal Asshat_.

The Wolf sniffed at his face, nudging at Stiles’ cheek with its nose. Stiles, petrified, let it. The Wolf whined, high in its throat, and licked at the trails of salt leading down past his chin. Once it determined that there were no more tears to clean, it snorted lightly, leaning back and gazing into Stile’s eyes unwaveringly.

“Hi,” Stiles offered, a whisper, at a loss for words. The Wolf sat down opposite him, taking in the way Stiles had folded one leg under the other, Indian-style, and did his—no, wait, _its_ —best to copy it.

“No,” Stiles said, moving to correct him— _it_. “Both feet go under you knees. Look.” He touched the Wolf’s foot and it moved away, growling threateningly. 

“Whoa, okay,” Stiles rushed to say, heart rate ratcheting up. He raised his hands. “Sorry, no touching, got it.”

The Wolf settled back into position, eyeing Stiles warily. It broke its gaze only to look at Stiles’ feet in consideration, look at its own, and fix its mistake.

Stiles couldn’t stop his grin if he tried. “Exactly.” 

The Wolf grumbled. It would have been fearsome if he— _it,_ dammit—didn’t look so reluctantly proud of itself.

A heavy silence grew, and Stiles took the chance to look around. They were in a train car about thirty feet long. Wooden crates were stacked along the walls and in the corners, and atop them rested—color Stiles ten different shades of surprised— _knick-knacks_. Seriously. Snow globes, remote controls, hairbrushes, Christmas ornaments. All different kinds of shit.

“I like the décor,” Stiles commented, grinning at the Wolf. He felt loopy, like someone had slipped him a shot of acid-washed wolfsbane. He was hanging out with a fucking _werewolf_ , and he wasn’t in the process of dying. Well, at least, not in the ‘Oh sweet Jesus, that’s what two pints of my blood looks like?’ way, and that was the important way.

“I’m Stiles,” he said, gripping at where his ankles met and leaning back, spine popping pleasantly.

The Wolf growled, long and low, and Stiles tensed up. “Wow, okay, yup, sorry, no talking, shutting up now.”

The Wolf shook his head and growled again. He—okay, this was a losing battle, and the thing was definitely male— _he_ tore a clawed hand through his hair, looking frustrated. “D-rrrrrr.”

“Oh, wait!” Stiles cried, understanding. “You’re trying to tell me your name! You have a name? What is it?”

The Wolf threw him a dry look. _What do you think I’m trying to do?_ it said. “Right, sorry,” Stiles said. “Continue.”

“D-grrrrr,” the Wolf tried. “D-rrrrrrr.”

“Wolf got your tongue?” Stiles asked, sympathetic. He laughed, unrepentant, when he received a sour look. “Well, hey, it begins with a D, right?”

The Wolf lowered his head in what Stiles assumed was assent. “So, okay, let’s just call you D. Is that cool?”

The Wolf nodded again, still looking frustrated. “Hey, no big, D,” said Stiles, feeling sorry for this werewolf that couldn’t even say his own name. “Names are arbitrary labels, anyway. Can I look at your stuff?”

D looked around at the stacks of boxes and shrugged. “Awesome opossum.” Stiles stood, making his way to the nearest stack. It was mostly garbage stuff, things that wouldn’t be allowed into the community simply because they weren’t useful enough. No space for clutter, not when the space was already limited. So, naturally, Stiles was fascinated.

“What even _is_ this?” Stiles picked up a white, rectangular object with two buttons on top. He pushed on the buttons, enjoying the light _click_ they made. Underneath hung a little white ball, held into the object by a circular latch.

“M-mouse,” said a deep, rough voice. Stiles turned, stunned.

“Did you just talk? You can talk!” Stiles sat down in front of D, a smile breaking across his face. “You totally just talked!”

D pointed at the object, undeterred. “Mouse.”

“Oh!” Stiles said, “right! This is a mouse?” D nodded and held a clawed hand out. Stiles dropped the mouse into his hand and watched as he put it on the ground and laid the hand over it, moving it around and clicking.

“ _Dude_ ,” Stiles gasped. “This is, like, for a computer, huh? Like, back before touch screens and trackpads and shit. This is _vintage_.”

D frowned, rubbing at his chest. “Old.”

“Hmm? Oh, because you know what this is? Nah, dude. I mean, I have no idea how old you are, really, but you seem, y’know, young. Ish.”

D shrugged again and reached out, snagging a small stuffed owl from a nearby crate and scratching at it with his claws lightly. Seconds later, the owl fell apart and a ball of stuffing fell to the floor.

“Did you just,” Stiles whispered, eyes nearly bugging out of his head. “Just how sharp are your claws, D?”

D shrugged and flicked a claw along his forearm, watching a line of blood well with disinterest. “Holy fuck, dude.” Stiles rushed to blot away the injury, trained for years to eradicate any trace of blood before it turned into a trail to scent. D let him, but, by the time Stiles had gripped his wrist, the wound had already healed. Stiles wiped the blood away anyway, trailing curious fingers over the smooth skin. “It’s just gone,” he breathed, “like it never even happened.”

D shrugged again. “Heal.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Stiles chuckled. “I envy you. I broke my arm when I was eleven, and you know how long it took to heal? Four months.” D looked blankly at Stiles, who rolled his eyes. “Four _months_ , you know. Like, full moons?”

D’s nostrils flared at that, eyes widening. “Yeah, bro,” Stiles agreed. “That long. Sucks.” D looked down at his own arm, flexing his (admittedly gorgeous) muscles in thought.

He growled and held up two fingers. “It takes two months for you?” Stiles guessed. D shook his head. “Days?” Shake. “Hours?” Nod.

“It takes two hours for you to heal from a broken arm,” Stiles stated. “Two hours. You could break your arm in the morning and be healed by lunch. You utter jerk.” D shrugged, but the corner of his mouth lifted just the slightest bit. Stiles knew a reluctant smile when he saw one; he got them enough. One of the perks of being an annoying (read: hysterical) youth in a city full of somber people.

“If only I’d known!” Stiles lamented. “I could’ve just gotten the Bite, after all! Ugh, why didn’t I—”

A rumbling growl broke him off. Stiles looked at D, who had tensed and looked very much like he was trying to hold himself back from something. “I was kidding,” Stiles said, feeling very stupid. “I didn’t mean to offend, or anything.”

D stood up and walked to the opposite end of the car, hunching over himself. Stiles picked at the decimated owl, mortified. He’d always been socially awkward—and that was saying something, considering today’s society—but this really took the cake. A werewolf, a specimen of the one thing that people were supposed to avoid above all else, the _one_ thing that obliterated the human race, had saved his life. Saved his _life_. _His_ life. 

“Hey, D?” Stiles said, the question burning in his throat even as he tried to hold it back. “Why me?”

The next thing he knew, D had swung himself out of the car. Stiles rushed to the window, watching as D landed smoothly, balancing with one hand to the ground, and took off into the night. 

“Yep,” Stiles sighed, “I’m totally fucked.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey!
> 
> So... it's been a while. I'm going to be honest: I gave up on this story. I know, that sucks and I suck. BUT I have like fourteen chapters written and I'd hate for all of that to just lay in my laptop unread so I'm posting it. I'm not promising a conclusion, but I'm not denying one either. I may get up the gumption to finish this story one day. 
> 
> The chapters I post will be read over for grammar mistakes and basic continuity errors. If anyone spots anything I missed, please feel free to let me know and I'll fix it.

What the fuck was he doing? Letting the human survive was one thing, but bringing him to the rail yard? Bringing him to his car? His home?  
  
Not the human. Stiles.   
  
D snarled at himself, pushing his muscles to run faster. He had brought Stiles into the encampment, where he was surrounded by werewolves that were frothing at the mouth to get a taste. He hadn’t killed the boy, but he’d done the next worst thing.  
  
But why? Why hadn’t he just killed the kid and been done with it? Stiles was nothing but a human, a walking tube of meat that wouldn’t hesitate to put a bullet through any werewolf that crossed his path. In fact, he had killed one, back at the pharmacy, with a knife no longer than his hand.  
  
D stopped running once he got into the woods, panting. The burn in his legs hummed pleasantly before it faded, lactic acid soothing away before it had a chance to linger. D wished the healing powers were slightly less potent; he enjoyed the ache of a workout. It felt natural. Running was one of the few true pleasures of being a werewolf, not that D knew better either way. He had never known life as a human, but sometimes he thought that was a good thing. The weres that had been Turned late in life oozed grief like a palpable thing. They reeked of it.  
  
And when your main method of identifying every living thing around you was smell, that proved to be quite the nuisance. Werewolves, of course, had no difficulty distinguishing scents, even under the haze of bitter-sour-sweet grief, but that didn’t mean it was welcome.   
  
Especially not when it reminded D of just how long he had smelled the same. Best not to dwell on that now, though. He’d mourned for long enough.  
  
D sniffed at the air, growling happily when he smelled vanilla and wet pines. S was here.  
  
The shorter, dark-haired Were dropped down from a thick branch. He preferred leaping along treetops to running outright, the damned monkey. He cocked his head at D and whined low in his throat. _Why do you smell like human?_  
  
Werewolves could, anatomically speaking, talk just fine. The tongue still worked, the throat still contracted, all that. But wolves had other ways of communicating, scents and body movements and growl inflections, that were far more honest. They were simple, instinctual, and easy. Werewolves were no different and, apparently, biology had decided that it was the wolf way or the highway.  
  
The instant the bite took hold, you stopped using your words. D didn’t know why, and he didn’t care to find out. He’d been born a werewolf, so it wasn’t really relevant to him, and besides, who knew enough to figure out the subconscious psychology of a Were? Moreover, who cared?   
  
Because it didn’t matter. You used your nose, you used your eyes, and you stopped worrying about the “if only”s.  
  
D rolled his eyes and scrubbed at the blood crusted in the fur along his jawline. _I was on a raid, you moron._  
  
 S shrugged. _Okay._   
  
And this is why D liked S. He was smart enough, but he was loyal to a fault. If you lied to him, he knew it, but he didn’t question you about it. He trusted you to tell the truth, when need be. It was refreshing, after living among hungry wolves (literally) for so long. Weres lived suspiciously, especially the ones that got Turned after the Change. All predators and no prey makes Jack a wary boy.  
  
Yeah, D knew some pop culture references. Get over it. Werewolves weren’t always rabid creatures with a passion for longpig tartare, you know. Maybe.  
  
S sniffed at D hopefully. _Bring any home?_  
  
D snapped his fangs. _Get your own food, you leech._  
  
S held up his middle finger. That needed no translation. D laughed, loud barks that sent birds flying overhead. S grinned, the expression looking feral on his wolfy face. This was their friendship.  
  
They messed around in the woods, snapping at each other like pups and chasing each other through the trees. S had been Turned five years ago, when he was just thirteen. He’d adjusted badly, attacking anything and everything in sight. He was furious that he’d been bitten, which, as far as D was concerned, was far better than reacting in grief. Some monster bites you and forces you to join their ranks? You get pissed off. Don’t mince and mope and whine, that’s a hole that only burrows itself deeper. Anger is something you work through and get over.  
  
Of course, D never claimed to be a well-adjusted person, so who was he to say?  
  
Actually, he’d never claimed to be a person at all.  
  
But S’s anger burned out, eventually, and D made his grand entrance as the Wolf Guru. D taught him how to scent, how to track, how to mark territory, and more. S was a quick study, although, honestly, most of this stuff was instinctual. D liked to give S the benefit of the doubt.  
  
Two months into their friendship, S, who, at the time, was know to D as “vanilla-pine with dark fur,” sat down with D and forced his tongue to hollow around his teeth. He hissed. He pointed at himself, hissing, and then pointed at D with his head cocked. _My name started with an S, I think. Do you remember yours?_ D thought hard for a moment and connected his tongue to his hard palate, pushing out a “duh.”  
  
S and D. They knew each other’s names. They were best friends.   
  
Late in the evening, D and S finally stopped tussling. S trotted off to his home in the rail yard, and D scaled the scaffolding up to his.  
  
Back to his original problem: Stiles.   
  
He hadn’t given two shits about the kid, first time he saw him. Granted, that first look was a glance, quickly proceeded by a glance in another direction, but still; the kid wasn’t special, objectively speaking.  
  
But then D had taken down a fit Hawaiian guy. The boy, barely old enough to be a man, hadn’t even screamed. He fought and didn’t give in, and for that, D respected him.   
  
The Hunger, so capitalized because when it hit it _consumed_ , was a nasty thing. It raged inside, like your stomach was a gaping hole straight to Hades, and it could only be satisfied by the taste of human flesh. It was atrocious, but it was the way of life. The Hunger hit, and werewolves hunted.  
  
The Hunger demanded meat, but eating the heart was an honest-to-God delicacy. The human heart fluctuated depending on the person’s mood. Fear drove the heart rate up, relaxation calmed it down, et cetera. Those fluctuations left a mark, a chemical trace, on the heart permanently. When a werewolf ate the heart, those chemicals became the were’s own. For that bright, shining moment, the were felt real emotion, human emotion, like a hot, swelling wave of sun.   
  
When D bit into the Hawaiian kid, he nearly passed out from what he felt. Love, pure and unfettered, rushed over his mind, sweet and heady. Deep, overwhelming, passionate love. And then, a bite later, hope and regret, in equal measure.  
  
It was the first time D had felt hope in over a decade, and it broke through the Hunger. He felt hope. There was hope to be had, here, and love, and so much more. There was so much more.  
  
D looked up at Stiles, and he knew. This boy, this skinny wash of pale skin and moles, had caused the emotions in Hawaii’s heart. He was the love, he was the regret. He was the hope. D just had to save him. It was as simple as that.  
  
But it wasn’t that simple, not when he had a human in a veritable den of human-hunters, hidden by nothing more than a thin layer of D’s scent.   
  
He hadn’t needed to carry Stiles the whole way back—he knew Stiles could’ve walked it—but five hours of walking with the boy rubbing against his skin the entire way had sloughed off just enough scent to hide him. For a while.  
  
D paused just outside the door of his car. Stiles was breathing deeply, heart rate slow. He was sleeping. D vaulted up and into the car, landing quietly. Stiles didn’t so much as snort.   
  
He was curled up on the pile of blankets D called a bed. Something deep inside D purred at the thought of Stiles on his bed, a part that clung to Hawaii’s emotions like a barnacle on a ship’s hull. He debated sleeping on the floor of the cat, but the thought made him defensive. It was his bed, his home. He’d sleep on it if he wanted to.  
  
He sat down on the opposite edge of the blankets, tucking his legs up around his stomach. The cinnamon-tang scent of Stiles filled his senses, and before D knew it, he had fallen asleep.  
  
He awoke to a hot gust of air blowing across the delicate skin of his neck. He froze, lips curling back to attack, when he remembered. The pharmacy. Hawaii. Stiles. D felt for the tiny bulge in his front pocket and pulled it out. It was what was left of Hawaii’s heart, no more than a few bites, if D wasn’t too greedy.  
  
D tore off a tiny chunk, chewing Hawaii’s heart over the head of the kid’s sleeping boyfriend. Love, viscous and pungent, followed by determination and sweet, sweet hope; it was a high unlike D had ever imagined. Addictive.  
  
Stiles turned his nose into the warmth of D’s neck and nuzzled. D stowed the rest of Hawaii’s heart back into his pocket and closed his eyes, feigning sleep and enjoying the intimacy of snuggling. It’d been a long time since he’d had any real human contact… in a manner of speaking. Wrestling with S didn’t count, not really. This felt like home. This felt like something D could do every morning for the rest of his life.   
  
Stiles gripped the skin above D’s hip, pressing his chest into D’s. “Mmm,” Stiles moaned, rolling his hips up onto the plane of D’s stomach. He was hard.  
  
D could definitely do this every morning for the rest of his life.  
  
Stiles’ lips pressed into the hollow of D’s collarbone. “Mmm. Danny.”  
  
Oh. D squeezed his eyes shut, tamping down on the instinctive urge to lash out and destroy. He was running on the stolen emotions of Stiles’ dead lover, Danny. (And what kind of name was that? “Danny.” What man in his right mind went by Danny? Obviously not a very good one.) But Stiles didn’t feel anything for him in return. As far as Stiles was concerned, D was the weird, creepy werewolf that was holding him hostage. He needed to remember that.  
  
D relaxed, selfishly allowing Stiles to continue laying soft, sleepy kisses on his throat and rubbing his erection slowly, deeply, into the flesh beneath his belly button. Just pretend to be asleep.  
  
He didn’t need to wait long. Stiles stilled a few seconds later, pulling away slowly. “Fuck,” Stiles whispered. “Fuckity fucking fuck. I just humped a werewolf.”  
  
It took everything in D not to laugh. He bit through the inside of his mouth, tangy blood spilling down his tongue. Stiles shifted his hips to the side and surreptitiously tried to roll away. D opened his eyes, catching Stiles’, which widened in shock and humiliation.  
  
“Good morning,” Stiles said, overly chipper. “You will notice that I did not wake you up by humping your hip. Nope. No way did that happen.”  
  
D’s lip tugged up. Stiles reeked of arousal, still. If he was just having a sex dream about Danny, the arousal would have faded by now. Well, then.   
  
D nodded his head. “Okay.”  
  
Stiles huffed. “Jesus, this could not get more awkward.”  
  
“Who’s… Danny?” D asked, feeling immensely proud of himself for getting two consecutive words out. Talking took a lot of focus.   
  
“Oh,” said Stiles, flushing, “I lied. It could get more awkward. Heh.”  
  
“Don’t… have to.” Three words. D was on a roll.  
  
“No, it’s okay,” Stiles said, getting comfortable on the edge of the pile of blankets. D rolled onto his back and tucked his hands under his head, relishing the jump in Stiles’ pulse. This was more fun than D had had in a long time.  
  
“So, Danny,” Stiles said, clearing his throat. “Danny was there, at the pharmacy. You might’ve seen him. Tall, brownish skin. He was wearing a polo. Maybe?” D didn’t answer. Yeah, he’d seen Danny. “Doesn’t matter, I suppose. Danny and I were… together, I guess.”  
  
“Guess?” D questioned. Judging by Danny’s heart, the two were well on their way to married with kids.  
  
“Yeah,” Stiles sighed. “It’s a long story.”  
  
“Got time.”   
  
“Heh, I guess we do. But, um, can I pee first?”  
  
D stood, watching Stiles scramble to his feet half a second later.  He sniffed at Stiles’ neck— sleeping together had freshened the scent enough— and grabbed Stiles around the waist. “Hold on.”  
  
D leapt out the open car door, falling though the air and landing softly.   
  
“I told you that I have to pee,” Stiles wheezed, “so you scare the crap out of me. Your people skills need work, amigo.”   
  
D growled in assent and ran to a nearby copse of trees. A few weres sniffed them as they passed, but remained calm. Stiles smelled like D. He was off-limits. Thank God for territoriality.  
  
Stiles peed against a tree, groaning loudly in relief. D tried (and failed) to ignore how dirty it sounded. When Stiles was done, D walked over to the spot and peed right on top of it, sniffing to make sure the scent was covered.  
  
“Dude,” Stiles sputtered, “gross.” D ignored him, picking him up and carrying him back up to the rail car.   
  
“Danny,” D reminded him, sitting back down on the bed.  
  
“Do you, maybe, have some breakfast, or something?” Stiles asked, stalling. “I’ve got a wicked case of the grumblies.”  
  
“Danny,” said D, holding up a single finger. He raised a second. “Food.”  
  
“Yeah, okay,” Stiles said, flopping down. “One order of epic love tragedy, coming right up.”  
  
He was right: it was a long story. Stiles told D all about how he and Danny had met when the community first began. Danny’s dad was a deputy and Stiles’ dad was a sheriff, so they hung out a lot while their dads talked. Danny figured out he was gay early on, but Stiles was hung up on being in love with some girl named Lydia. “She was there, too,” Stiles said, worrying his lip between his teeth distractingly. “I hope she got back okay.”  
  
He went on to explain how he developed a massive crush on Danny, but he never said anything because he figured Danny wasn’t interested. “I mean, have you seen me?” Stiles joked. D didn’t quite understand the joke— Stiles was very good looking, why wouldn’t Danny go for it?— but he stayed silent.  
  
Their love was deep and resonant, Stiles said, but things changed once they started training as raiders. Danny started taking his job very seriously and spent all his free time talking about his new job. Stiles hated it, but he stuck around because their love was deep and resonant, and that mattered. Until it didn’t. Stiles realized that the love he felt was more of a memory than an actual emotion, and he started to pull away. But then, just a couple months ago, Lydia had talked him back into the relationship, to take advantage of happiness while he could get it.  
  
“And she was right,” Stiles finished, looking heart-broken. “We only had a little while together. I’m happy they were good for him.”  
  
And all the pieces suddenly fit together. The love for Stiles, the regret for pushing him away, the determination to be a good soldier for his people, and his hope that things could work out between them. D felt the tiny bump in his pocket and resolved to throw it away. It would only be painful, now.   
  
“He didn’t,” Stiles started, looking morbidly hopeful, “he won’t, like, come back, right? I know sometimes people recover, and they turn into Wolves.”  
  
“Werewolves,” D corrected, growling around the ‘r’. He had trouble with those. “Not wolves. Half human.”  
  
“Really?” Stiles asked, curious. “Is it offensive, to be called a Wolf? It's what the humans call you guys.”  
  
“Not offensive,” D grunted, “just inaccurate.”  
  
“I suppose you’re right,” Stiles contemplated. “But, you know, will he?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Oh,” Stiles said, deflating. “I guess… I guess that’s better. Not that, you know, it’s bad being a Wolf— a werewolf, geez, sorry— but, you know, Danny probably wouldn’t have adjusted very well.”  
  
D shrugged. He didn’t know how to respond to that. “Sorry for your loss.” That was a lot of ‘r’s.  
  
“It’s cool,” Stiles said. “Actually, really, it is. I kind of… expected it, you know? Maybe that makes me sound awful. Danny was so dedicated, so devoted to the whole ‘preservation of humanity’ thing. It’s, like, perfect cosmic irony that he died on one of his first raids.”  
  
The bite of heart in D’s stomach lurched. He’d been the one to cause that irony. He’d ended that spark that had barely grown into a flame. That was on him.   
  
“So about that food….”  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapters should be posted fairly quickly. Thanks for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, everyone! I know, I promised I would post quickly and then left for three days. I discovered Dexter and lost control of my life for a while. I'm back.
> 
> Chapter four! I'll try to get five up today, too.
> 
> Be warned, this chapter is NSFW, and a lot of this story will follow in the same way. Lots of sex, is what I'm getting at, here. 
> 
> Un-beta'd.

D looked at Stiles, puzzled. Stiles groaned. “Our agreement, remember? I tell you my Romeo and Juliet, and you find me something to eat. We just did this, like ten minutes ago.”  
  
D rolled his eyes. It was getting easier for Stiles to pick up on D’s facial cues, and he knew that that look meant, “I’m not an idiot, you know. Maybe you should preface yourself a bit better, instead of dropping non-sequiturs left and right.”  
  
Maybe Stiles was embellishing a little.  
  
“Don’t roll your eyes at me! A deal’s a deal. I need the sustenance.”  
  
D snapped his jaws, growling. Stiles tried not to flinch, he really did, but wow that was kind of terrifying. D must have seen the flinch, because he leaned away and lowered his head.  
  
“It’s, um,” Stiles choked, flexing his fingers against the adrenaline rush, “it’s okay. Sorry. Old habits die hard, I guess.”  
  
D whined low in his throat. “I’m so sorry,” it said.  
  
“Hey, I said it’s okay,” Stiles insisted. He reached out and petted over D’s hair unthinkingly. The guy looked like such a puppy dog sometimes that Stiles had a hard time not reacting to him like he was a big, broody black lab. Or maybe a husky, with those eyes. Yeah, definitely a husky.  
  
D froze, and Stiles realized that his fingers were currently tangled knuckle-deep in a werewolf’s hair. Shit. He withdrew his hand quickly. “Sorry. I have personal space problems. Please don’t kill me?”  
  
D shot him a heavy glare. Stiles’ pulse jumped in his throat and he began inching away. Before he moved much more than an inch, a hand came out and shackled around his wrist, drawing it back up to D’s head. The werewolf leaned into the touch. “It’s okay. I like it.”  
  
“Oh,” Stiles breathed, spearing his fingers into D’s thick, black hair. “Well, alright then.” D’s hair was just as dirty as the rest of him, matted down in some places and tufted up in others. Strangely, it was kind of adorable.   
  
“You could use a bath,” Stiles said conversationally, leaning in to brush over the back of D’s head. “I mean, not to be a rude guest, or anything, but you seen to lack a few amenities. Food, soap, cable television.”  
  
D snorted, tilting his head to the side to make it easier for Stiles to work through a knot. “I had a lot of that stuff in my bag. Honestly, the apocalypse makes you one hell of a Boy Scout. We were trained to pack enough supplies to last us two weeks on our own, just in case. I always thought that was stupid, you know? Like, you either escape or you die. Wolves— and by that, I mean to say the more politically correct ‘werewolves’— don’t usually allow for survivors.”  
  
D shrugged. “Lonely.”  
  
“Really?” Stiles said, pulling his hand away and tilting D’s face up. “Is it? I mean, don’t you have friends? Like, you know, werewolf buddies, or something?”  
  
D thought of S and nodded. “Different.”  
  
“That’s your way of telling me I’m a loudmouth, isn’t it?” Stiles grinned brightly. “I get that a lot. I think most people don’t know how to handle my oodles of charm, personally.”  
  
D shrugged again. “S’nice.”  
  
Stiles bit his lip, dropping his gaze to his lap. His heart ached, just then, for this strange werewolf with no one to talk to. Well, to listen at, but same difference. D looked so vulnerable when he talked to Stiles, like he had never had someone to talk to before. “Hey, D, how long ago did you Turn?”  
  
D looked into Stiles’ eyes, expression unreadable. “Dunno.”  
  
The air stopped in Stiles’ chest. “You don't remember? Seriously?” D nodded. “So, like, does that mean your family is all werewolves, too? Is that nice?”  
  
He must have hit a nerve, because Derek tensed and leapt out of the rail car.   
  
“Note to self,” Stiles said to thin air, “don’t mention family.” He sat in that spot for a few seconds, feeling stupid and guilty, before he stood up. “I didn’t know any better,” he chided himself. “There’s no need to feel guilty about being ignorant. He’ll be okay.”  
  
But that was an empty promise. Stiles didn’t know D, and he had no idea how he’d react to getting triggered. D could run out and kill someone, or leave Stiles to his own defenses in the middle of a werewolf camp. Stiles had no idea how he hadn’t been discovered yet, but he strongly suspected that D leaving for long periods of time would weaken whatever defenses were keeping him safe.   
  
And if he died, what would happen at the community? What would happen to Dad? The Sheriff had undoubtedly sent out search parties to find his missing son, especially if Lydia had made it back. Stiles wondered what was happening back home. It felt so foreign, his little world of classes and chores and raids. Had he really only been there yesterday? It felt like he’d been living in a mess of blankets and crates for a while now.  
  
That worried Stiles more than anything else. He wasn’t supposed to feel at home, here. This wasn’t right. He was being held hostage in a train car suspended off the ground. He was fucking Rapunzel, for Christ's sake. He had no way of eating or drinking, unless D brought things to him. He was alone, a sheep among wolves.   
  
So why did he feel content? How on Earth could he possibly trust D with his very life? For all he knew, D was going through some sort of midlife moral crisis, and Stiles was his guinea pig. He could be dead at any instant.   
  
That shouldn’t feel liberating, but it did. It was kind of awesome to be living on the wire like that. He could live however he wanted to. There were no duties to fulfill, no expectations to meet. All Stiles had to do was be nice to D, and that wasn’t very hard.   
  
What was hard was not being too nice to D. The guy was gorgeous, wolf fangs and all, and Stiles was an eighteen-year-old with a hard-on for muscly guys. And boy, but did D have muscles. But he was nice, too. He was a cuddly, blazing hot dude that liked getting his hair touched and collected crazy doo-dads for shits and giggles. He was 100% Stiles’ type, apart from being a werewolf, and even that didn’t seem like too much of a deterrent, if Stiles' dick had anything to say about it.   
  
In fact, that could actually be kind of hot. All those muscles, and those razor-sharp claws that flirted with the edge of danger? That could be very hot. How did werewolves do it, anyhow? Was it animalistic? Stiles bet it was. Would D throw him on his knees? Would D take him just like that, on the floor? Would D mount him?  
  
Stiles bit his lip, willing his dick to stop filling. But the images kept pouring in: Stiles, taking D down his throat; D, snuffling into the join of Stiles’ legs; Stiles, working himself open, angling his hips so that D could watch; D, growling all the while, sending delicious vibrations everywhere. The visions just didn’t stop.  
  
Stiles reached for the button of his jeans, considering. He probably had time to jack off— last time D left, he was gone for a few hours— but should he? Wouldn’t D, like, smell it? Would D be okay with that? Stiles thought of how D had let him hump his leg this morning, and realized that he didn’t care. He wanted D to smell it, smell the result of letting a horny teenaged boy do the dreamtime-dance on his leg. Maybe he’d learn a lesson.  
  
Stiles leaned back and unbuttoned his jeans, shimmying them down past his hips. His cock hung heavy against his stomach, red and hot. Stiles closed his eyes and circled his forefinger and thumb around the head, teasing. He imagined D jumping up into the car and finding him like this, pants around his thighs, all wanton. He imagined D’s face darkening, a low purr rumbling in his chest. He would leap forward— no, maybe he’s stay still, like he didn’t know what to do with himself. He would just watch Stiles jerk himself off, his own dick swelling beneath his dirty, ripped jeans. He would walk forward slowly, dropping to his knees, just watching, observing. He would sniff for Stiles’ arousal, and Stiles would have it in spades. Why was that so hot? Didn’t matter, because D would follow the smell down to Stiles’ cock, he would press his nose against it to get a better sniff, and Stiles would offer it up to him with a jerk of the hips. He would growl there, against Stiles’ dick, and the feeling would radiate up to the tip, and precome would just ooze out of him. And D, maybe he’d smell a new smell, and he’d investigate, nosing up the length of Stiles’ dick. Maybe he’d get curious and lick at it, just a little.  
  
Stiles felt a knot in the base of his spine beginning to tighten. He bit his lip, hard, his fantasy growing wilder. D would like the flavor, he’d like it a lot, and he’d press of flat of his tongue underside of Stiles’ dick, scooping up every single drop and he’d growl and go, “Stiles.”  
  
Stiles jerked, orgasm tearing through him. He had just enough foresight to cup his hand around the tip, catching most of his spunk safely. A drop or two landed on the strip of skin between Stiles’ hipbones.  
  
Fuck. What did he do now? He had a handful of come and no way to dispose of it. He didn’t want to wipe it on his clothes; they were the only ones he had, and that was gross. He hadn’t really thought this through, had he?   
  
There was only one solution. Stiles licked at the puddle on his palm, swallowing down his own come until it was gone. He wiped at the drops on his stomach and licked them off his thumb, wishing he had a mint, or something. Gross.  
  
He buttoned himself back up and stood, stretching from side to side. Orgasms made him dopey, but very much awake. He needed something to do. He wiped the (mostly clean) palms of his hands down the thighs of his jeans, looking through the stacks of things D collected.   
  
“Wait,” he mumbled, spying a corner of green peeking out from under a map of South Africa, “is that…?”  
  
He pulled the corner, and there it was: a comic book. “The Incredible Hulk? Fuck yes!” Stiles crowed. And there was a whole stack of them, hidden under that map: Hawkeye, Batman, Spiderman, Wonder Woman, and more. Stiles carried them all to the pile of blankets and sat down to read. This whole hostage situation was really starting to look up.  
  


* * *

  
D climbed the scaffolding, tugging the strap of Stiles’ bag back onto his shoulder. It had been easy to find, laying in an alcove in the back of the pharmacy, reeking of Stiles. The trip took him a few hours, but it was a lot quicker running than it had been when he was carrying Stiles the whole way. He walked through the rail yard, shouldering past the Weres that sniffed at the bag. Sandalwood-and-seabreeze tried to swipe at it, but Derek tore through the skin on his hand and the blonde Were retreated. Most werewolves gave him his space. They knew better than to sniff around him. He’d never gone Alpha, but he’d come close. That kind of reputation stuck.  
  
D stopped just underneath the car, smelling a foreign scent. It was bitter, but not unpleasant. It smelled heavy, though, like— oh. Lust hit D like a truck. He knew that smell. That was the smell of seed, and, judging by the way it tickled at the back of his throat, it was Stiles’. But that meant that Stiles had— _oh_.  
  
D jumped off the scaffolding and ran into the forest, his mind a cloud of _wantneedtakeStilesbreed_. Once he was hidden in the trees, he fell to his knees and undid his jeans, humping into his hand like a man starved. Stiles had pleasured himself in D’s den. He hadn’t realized, of course, what kind of message that sent, but D knew, and it sent lava-hot arcs of desire straight to his cock. Stiles had as well as marked the spot as his. With come. Like a mate would.  
  
He came with a howl, mind stuck on the word ‘mate.’ Oh, he would breed Stiles so hard, he wouldn’t be able to walk for a week. He’d look so pretty, bruised up and limping, wearing D’s mark inside and out. He remembered Stiles that morning, pressing his lips against D’s neck and rubbing his crotch all over D’s hip.   
  
“Danny,” he’d whispered.  
  
And just like that, D deflated. Right. Danny. Stiles had probably been thinking about Danny when he’d jerked off. It was a little weird, thinking about your dead ex, but who was D to judge? It made a lot more sense than the alternative. So what, Stiles had pet his hair? That wasn’t romantic. D had captured Stiles after brutally murdering his boyfriend and absconded with him. He’d taken Stiles away from his family and friends. Stiles would never want him.  
  
With a heavy heart, D wiped his hand on the grass and made his way back to the train car. The smell of sex still lingered, but it left an ashy taste in D’s mouth. He had stolen Danny’s emotions, he had no right to steal his boyfriend’s memory of him, as well.  
  
“Hey!” Stiles said, jumping up. His scent spiked with guilt as he rubbed his hand along the fabric of his jeans. “How are things?”  
  
D grunted, pulling the bag off his shoulder and offering it out.  
  
“Oh, you got my bag!” Stiles exclaimed, rushing forward to grab it. “Dude, awesome! Thanks!” He leapt up, hugging D around the neck. The mixed scent of Stiles and sex washed over D, and his resolve weakened. Oh, but he wanted this boy, ex be damned.  
  
Stiles pulled back a moment later, flushed. “Uh, sorry. Didn’t mean to, you know, pounce on you, there.”  
  
D shrugged. “Fine.”   
  
Stiles walked back to the blankets, patting the spot next to him as he opened his backpack. “Come sit, let’s see what I packed. I don’t remember.”  
  
D crouched down next to Stiles, distracted when the smell of sex grew stronger. Oh, he’d done it right here, hadn’t he? Right were Derek was sitting. Oh.  
  
Stiles was already pulling things out of his pack. A handful of protein bars followed a pair of boxer shorts, then a gun and a box of wolfsbane bullets. D reared back, snarling at the gun, running on instincts alone. The cloying, putrid odor of wolfsbane wafted out of it and the box of bullets like gaseous poison. Actually, extract the 'like'; it _was_ poison, the one thing that could stop a werewolf cold. And it was in his _home_.  
  
"--orry, oh my God." The voice washed over him, as if traveling through water. It was hard to make out and D shook his head to clear it. "Jesus, okay, let me just empty the rest of my bag and I'll put the gun and, er, everything back in it, and we can just hide it away and never look at it again… okay? Because you're starting to freak me out, more so than usual, and that's decidedly not fun, so, just give me a second and this will be all gone, yessiree.”  
  
"Stiles," D ground out, forcing himself to calm down. “Shut up.”  
  
Stiles froze halfway through putting the gun back into his bag. The rest of his belongings were strewn in a semicircle around him. “Ah. Okay. I can do that.”  
  
D quirked an eyebrow at him, and he fell silent, blushing. He finished packing the gun and bullets away and zipped the bag closed, balling it up and shoving it to the side, out of sight. D, who was back in control of his instincts, fought to hide a grateful smile. “Thanks.”  
  
He turned his attention to the rest of the items scattered on the floor and picked through them curiously. Toothbrush, a travel sized tube of toothpaste, a roll of some sort of paper, crinkly packages that smelled like chocolate, a worn paperback, three small bottles of flowery smelling shampoo along with a less scented cake of soap, a small bottle of lotion, and a small metal device with a thin cord coming out of it.  
  
“Dude!” Stiles cried, picking up the device. “My iPod!” He flicked it on and music, tinny to normal ears but a thunder in D's, started playing. It was jarring and discordant, and it tickled unpleasantly at the back of D's ears. He grimaced, and Stiles laughed. “Dubstep takes getting used to. It's all good.”  
  
Blessedly, he turned it off, discarding the iPod in favor of the chocolate bars. He peeled one open and took a large bite, moaning loudly. “Things I missed, item number one: chocolate. Wanna bite?"  
  
He offered the chocolate bar to D, who accepted it carefully. It didn't look like it was made for fangs. He sniffed it doubtfully.  
  
“Oh my God, wait," Stiles said, grabbing his wrist. “Can you even _have_ chocolate? Like, it won't kill you, will it?”  
  
D snorted, taking a large bite. “Not a dog.” The candy tasted... different. After so many years of eating nothing but raw meat, it was peculiar, the way it melted on his tongue. But it wasn't distasteful; not at all. D took another, smaller bite, chewing thoughtfully. It was kind of delicious, really.  
  
“You think that's good,” Stiles said gleefully, “try this." He gave D a round, flat piece of chocolate covered in aluminum foil. He sniffed at it once an bit into it, foil and all. This one wasn't nearly as nice.  
  
“Did you just?” Stiles spluttered. He stuck a hand under D's mouth. “Spit. Now.” D spit the bite, unchewed, into Stiles' palm, confused.   
  
“Jesus, D, you’re like a child,” Stiles griped, peeling back the slimy foil. He offered the uncovered treat on an open palm, and D scooped it up with a long, slow lick of his tongue. That was much better.  
  
“Oh,” Stiles breathed, his voice breaking as his heart thudded arrhythmically. “You, uh, okay.” D barely heard him; this was a level above chocolate. This was _orgasmic_.  
  
“What,” he said thickly, tongue tacking to the roof of his mouth, “is this?” He smacked his lips together, licking his chops to salvage any last morsel that might have escaped.  
  
“Peanut butter, amigo” Stiles replied, smug. “Want another?”  
  
They ate their way through the rest of Stiles' stash of candy, getting dopey from the sugar. “I guess I was really hungry,” Stiles sighed, looking at the mess of wrappers littering the floor. “Usually sugar makes me hyper, but right now all I want to do it sleep.”  
  
“Sleep,” D suggested, shrugging. “Safe.”  
  
“Yeah, I am,” Stiles said softly, as if he was surprised by it. He stretched backwards, laying down on the blankets. “Hmm. I don't want to sleep, or my sleep pattern will get all messed up, and that wouldn't be fun for either of us. Maybe,” he yawned, scrubbing at his eyes, “a little catnap, but then I want to bathe, okay? Is there, like, a river or something nearby?”  
  
D thought for a moment. The preserve wasn't far, and there was a big river there. It's where a lot of the Weres went to drink, but they rarely went out at the daytime, so it ought to be safe. “Yeah.”  
  
“Awesome opossum,” Stiles said sleepily. “Come lay with me.” He patted an area next to him, smiling. “Werewolves catnap, right?”  
  
D lay down on the spot Stiles had patted, staring at the fan of eyelashes on Stiles' cheeks. Stiles' heartbeat was a steady, calm source of white noise, and D found himself closing his eyes, enjoying the spicy tang of Stiles combined with a scent not unlike that of sunflower seed oil and fresh berries.  
  
D was almost asleep when he realized: it was happiness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, everyone! Firstly, thank you to all of the people that have subscribed to this story! The number shot up last chapter (I see you, you pervs ;D) and it was really awesome to see that.
> 
> Also, I neglected to mention it but I changed the name of this fic, because "Wolf Bodies" was the most terrible thing ever and I felt awful about it. I think this title is at least marginally better :)
> 
> Un-beta'd!

A harsh beam of sunlight streamed in through the door of the train car, glaring straight into Stiles' eyes. He tried to roll away from it, but something was wrapped around his middle, holding him in place. He opened his eyes blearily, looking down at his chest, where a large, muscular arm was curled across his ribs.   
  
A warm huff of air hit the back of his neck, and, a second later, he felt D's nose nudge his hairline. The arm squeezed tighter as D's nose nuzzled around Stiles' neck, to behind his ear. Stiles fought to keep his breathing even, fighting against the urge to arch back into D's hips.   
  
Stiles knew there was a laundry list of reasons to avoid falling for D, first and foremost being that he was a werewolf. He wasn't sure why D was keeping him safe, but he knew he couldn't expect D's willpower to last forever. He was a monster whose instincts told him to kill and eat humans. He couldn't fight his very nature, not for long.  
  
Furthermore, he was pretty sure that the attraction was one-sided. D was a tall, muscular, gorgeous person, werewolf or not, and Stiles was... Stiles. Not that there's anything wrong with having a slim, vaguely scrawny physique, no no. Stiles had come to terms with himself a long time ago, and he knew he wasn't a bad-looking guy. But he and D weren't even playing the same _sport_ , let alone being in the same league.  
  
No, D probably had all the hot bitches (pun most definitely intended) he could lay his hands on. He wouldn't go for Stiles.   
  
Not that it mattered, of course, because Stiles was a human and that probably didn't even work, physiologically. Werewolves had super speed, super strength, fangs, and deadly claws. You'd be lucky of you _survived_ that encounter.  
  
Why was that so thrilling? Stiles shouldn't have felt a deep, dark zing of pleasure at the idea, not at all. But there it was, swelling up in Stiles' dick. Wouldn't it be so incredibly hot to have all of that danger pressed up against, pressed _inside_ you? Knowing that, at any moment, D could lose control? _Making_ D lose control?  
  
Stiles' hips rolled of their own accord, seeking desperately for some kind of friction. The arm around Stiles' chest fell, and there was now a hot hand pressed up against the skin below his belly button. D inhaled against the back of Stiles' ear. “You have sex dreams a lot.”  
  
Stiles bit back the “only when you're around” perched under his tongue. Laundry list, remember? “I'm a teenaged boy,” he said instead, cursing his voice for breaking. “Hey, I think that's the most you've ever said in one go.”  
  
D was silent for a moment. “Yeah,” he said, sounding surprised. “It is.”  
  
“Is talking, like, hard for you?” Stiles asked, willing his erection to ebb. It wasn't working. “Or are you just a strong, silent type?”  
  
D took his time considering that, his thumb working absent-minded circles into Stiles' skin. It didn't help the Anti-Erection Front at _all_ , but Stiles couldn't find it in himself to complain. “Both?” D said finally. “Words are hard.... But also unnecessary.”  
  
That peaked Stiles' curiosity. He turned in D's hold to face the werewolf. The hand that was previously pressed against his stomach was now searing into the small of his back. Stiles wasn't sure which was worse. “So, werewolves, like, never talk, huh? How do you communicate? I mean, _do_ you communicate?”  
  
“Yeah,” D replied, affronted. “Not animals. Use scents, body to talk. Language is slower.”  
  
“Scents?” Stiles asked, a sharp tentacle of dread curling at the base of his spine. “You can smell things like that? Like, that acutely?”  
  
D nodded. “Feelings are chemicals... up here,” he said, tapping on his head. “Weres smell chemicals, know feelings.”  
  
“Uh huh,” Stiles responded warily. The tentacle of dread was climbing, revealing a Kraken of mortification that was balled up in his throat. At least it made his erection wane. “And that works for, you know, me and you, then, too.”  
  
The hand on Stiles' lower back tightened, and he felt a press of claws nudge into his flesh, almost breaking the skin. That _shouldn't be hot_ , dammit.  
  
“Stiles,” D said seriously, “why scared?”  
  
Because he could _smell fear_. Stiles groaned, dropping his head to rest on D's chest. “Really?” he asked into D's (perfectly defined) pecs. “You're going to make me say it?”  
  
D tensed for a moment, a shiver so tiny that Stiles barely felt it working its way down D's spine. _See?_ Stiles chided himself, _He's repulsed by it. By you. Get a grip._  
  
D sighed, nudging Stiles' chin up until their eyes met. D's eyes were so amazingly blue; Stiles couldn't help but get lost in them, corny as it sounded. “Stiles,” D said. “It's natural. No need for fear.”  
  
“It's rude, though,” Stiles insisted, ignoring the part of his brain that rejoiced in hearing that D had sexual urges, too. 'One bullet point crossed off the laundry list,' it crowed. “I mean, you saved my life, and here I am swamping you with my emotions and urges like some needy asshole.”  
  
D shrugged. He did that a lot. “Same as sadness or anger. At least you're happy.”  
  
“ _Too_ happy,” Stiles snorted, laughing when D quirked up his lips in his version of a smile. “Well, as fun as it is to discuss my libido-- heavy on the sarcasm, there, by the way-- I would kill to get clean.”  
  
D rolled to his feet gracefully (the dick) and offered a hand to Stiles, who accepted the hand and scrambled upright. Stiles grabbed the bottles of shampoo and the cake of soap and shoved them into the pocket of his hoodie before looping his arms around D's neck and holding on for dear life as D threw himself out of the train car. D climbed down the scaffolding, which Stiles knew was simply for his benefit, because he'd seen D jump and land on the ground in the past. When had Stiles become the delicate damsel in distress? Fuck his life.  
  
D let Stiles go, just to grab one of his hands. That, at least, made justifiable sense: if there was one place to definitely not get lost, it was in the middle of Werewolf Central. D walked to the edge of the forest, then looked at Stiles with a wide grin. It was terrifying.  
  
“Wanna go for a ride?”  
  
In more ways than one, yeah. “Um, sure?”  
  
D crouched down in front of Stiles and looped his hands around Stiles' knees, being careful with his claws. Stiles curled his arms around D's neck cautiously and yelped when D stood and took off, running through the trees supernaturally fast.  
  
“I take it back,” Stiles gasped. “I'm not a damsel in distress, I'm worse: I'm _Bella_.”  
  
D laughed and sped up. “Won't glitter.”  
  
“Okay, one, I am amazed and astounded that you can possibly run this fast and talk, because I can barely jog and talk, and two, I am amazed and astounded that you caught that reference. Also, I'm sorry, because you caught that reference.”  
  
D didn't respond, which was A-okay in Stiles' book. He was happy to watch the scenery zoom by. Hey, at least this was the one part of that series that had sounded cool. They were going so fast that the wildlife didn't have a chance to run away. Stiles had never seen real-life deer before.  
  
Before too long, Stiles heard the sound of rushing water, signifying that they were close to their destination. D slowed to a normal person's run, breaking through the line of trees to reveal a large river. It wasn't mindblowingly beautiful-- there was no waterfall or verdant pond life, or any of that-- but it was clear, clean water, and it was possibly the most gorgeous thing Stiles had ever seen.  
  
D let go of Stiles' knees, and Stiles released his hold on D's neck. He pushed his fists into the small of his back and leaned back, feeling his vertebrae pop. Riding on a werewolf's back: fun? Yes. Comfortable? Not quite.  
  
D stripped out of his jeans and walked into the water, flopping onto his back with a happy sigh. Okay, make that twice Stiles was wrong, because _that_ was the most gorgeous thing Stiles had ever seen. D's thighs were large and powerful, leading down to trim calves and up to a tight, perfectly shaped ass. And D could probably smell Stiles' arousal, but _damn_.  
  
“Okay,” Stiles said, his voice high. “Right. We are two fully-grown men-- well, I'm mostly fully-grown, and you're mostly man-- and we can definitely skinny dip together.”  
  
“Yep,” D agreed, swimming leisurely. “Bring soap.”  
  
“Right-o.” Stiles tugged off his clothes in jerky movements, suddenly very self-conscious about his lanky body. He pushed down his boxers and hurried to pick up the soap, scurrying into the water before D could get an eyeful of Stile's half-hard bits.  
  
“This water is freezing!” Stiles gasped, clutching his arms to his chest as his skin broke out in gooseflesh. D stood up and walked over, looking concerned.  
  
“Too cold?”  
  
“Uhh,” Stiles replied intelligently. There was too much full-frontal happening for any sort of coherence on Stiles' part. Thank God the water was cold enough to keep his dick under control, because _wow_. Stiles watched a drop of water drip off of D's chin to roll down into the mess of hair on his chest, which tapered down his stomach into a line leading to a thatch of hair housing easily the most perfect cock Stiles had ever seen. “No? I forget the question.”  
  
D rolled his eyes. “Soap,” he demanded, holding out a hand. Stiles gave him the cake wordlessly, still stuck on how many perfect body parts this guy had. It wasn't fair, not at all. Stiles wasn't sure if he'd rather _be_ him or be _on_ him, but he was pretty sure the answer was both.  
  
Whoa. That was a fantasy to hold onto, right there.  
  
D worked the soap over his skin, frowning when the foam turned brown. “I'm that dirty?”  
  
“Yeah, bro,” said Stiles, finally coming to his senses. “You gross me out like you wouldn't believe. I'm honestly proud of myself for my degree of tolerance.”  
  
D stilled, looking unsure. “Oh.”  
  
“Ugh, no, D,” Stiles sighed, “that was a joke. Hey, come on, give me some credit, here. You're obviously more than tolerable. You're downright lovable. Now give me the soap before I start rotting in my own grime.”  
  
D handed over the soap, a secretive sort of smile working its way across his lips. “Lovable?”  
  
“Yes,” Stiles said, exasperated. “You're like a puppy. A super hot, super manly puppy with an adorable habit of picking up knick knacks. Okay?”  
  
The secretive smile grew. “Okay.”  
  
“Great,” Stiles said, feeling simultaneously proud of himself and ridiculous. The latter seemed to be a constant around D, though, so he focused on the pride. He had no idea why D felt any modicum of self-consciousness, or why his opinion offered any sort of validation, but hey, he'd accept the good things as they came to him. Humanity was facing extinction; he could grant himself these small luxuries. “Shampoo?”  
  
He scrubbed some through his own buzz cut (standard issue, at the community) before tossing the bottle to D, who did his best to copy Stiles' movements. He still got some in his eyes, which made him snarl and dunk his head under the water. Stiles tried not to laugh, 'tried' being the operative word.  
  
Once they were clean, they used the soap and scrubbed their clothes on some rocks, laying them and the cake out to dry. The day was blazingly hot, so they sat along the edge of the water and soaked up some sun while they dried off.  
  
“So, I found your comic book collection,” Stiles said, peering over at D. “Who's your favorite?”  
  
D sighed heavily, silent. Stiles wondered if maybe he couldn't read, and kept them around simply because he could. He immediately felt guilty, and opened his mouth to apologize, when D spoke. “Tough question. Like asking which season is favorite. All serve purpose.”  
  
“That's true,” Stiles agreed, relieved. “I dunno, I was always an Iron Man guy. Tony's always got the good comebacks, you know? And he doesn't have a superpower, he's just smart enough and resourceful enough to do good on his own. It's kind of awesome.”  
  
D _hmm_ ed in agreement. “A lot like you.” Stiles gaped, flushing. That was probably the best compliment he'd ever received, like, ever. And D was being completely truthful about it-- he had no other way to be-- which made it even better. Stiles didn't know what to say. Luckily, he didn't have to say anything, because D kept talking. “Hulk, maybe. He has two sides, man and beast.... They fight but they are both good. I get that.”  
  
Stiles felt something deep swell in his heart. Every time D opened his mouth, he became less scary and more enchanting. “Yeah,” he said, biting back inappropriate confessions, “I can understand that.”  
  
D suddenly perked up, glancing over at the trees. They rustled, and D stood up, defensive. “Someone's here.”  
  
“Should we run?” Stiles asked, terrified. D shook his head.  
  
“No time. Fight.”  
  
“Well, fuck,” Stiles whispered. The trees rustled again, closer, and a werewolf came out, crouching cautiously. D, on the other hand, immediately relaxed.  
  
“S,” he said, surprised.  
  
“D,” the werewolf replied, eyeing Stiles carefully. He cocked his head, sniffing, which must have sent a message to D, because he growled low in his throat (and Stiles couldn't even begin to deny how sexy that was) and moved to stand directly in front of Stiles. The werewolf took half a step back, confused, and wait-- he looked awfully familiar.  
  
“... Scott?” Stiles asked, stunned. The werewolf stood, looking similarly surprised. “Scott? Scott McCall, is that you?”  
  
“ _Stiles_?” Scott replied, floored.   
  
“I,” Stiles stuttered, “I can't believe it. Can we hug now? I very much want to hug now.”  
  
Scott opened his arms, a wide grin stretching across his face, and Stiles leapt into his arms. “I've missed you so much,” Stiles whispered, tucking his chin over Scott's shoulder. “It's hard to be someone's bestest brother when that person disappears.”  
  
“Sorry,” Scott said brokenly. “Didn't want to die.”  
  
Stiles laughed, pulling away from the hug. “Yeah, I can accept that.” He remembered that one person was missing out on this reunion party and turned to face D, who was looking confused and not a little bit put out. “D, I'd like to introduce you to my best friend and lifetime brother, Scott McCall. I spent more of my childhood at his house than I did at my own.”  
  
“Mom,” Scott said urgently, grabbing Stiles' arm.  
  
“She's good,” Stiles reassured him. “She misses you like crazy, but she's good. She's been promoted to a physician, by the way.”  
  
“Really?” Scott asked. “Awesome!”  
  
“Yeah, so how do you guys know each other?”  
  
“Stiles,” said D, grinning dryly, “meet S, my best friend.”  
  
“Nuh uh,” Stiles gasped. “For real? That's so sweet! Look at how tiny the world is!”  
  
“D taught me everything,” Scott said, looking between them with a suspicious sort of glee. Stiles barely noticed, he was so caught up in being proud of D.  
  
“Yeah? I bet he's a damn good teacher,” he said, beaming at D, who honest-to-God flushed.  
  
“So...” Scott said, obviously trying not to laugh, “why naked?”  
  
“Oh,” said Stiles, stepping backwards to stand next to D. It felt safer, for some reason, even though he trusted Scott with his life. “We were, um, bathing. D apparently hasn't used soap in, like, a decade, and it's a freak of biology that he isn't covered in skin infections.  
  
“Werewolves,” D pointed out. “Freak of biology, kind of... _thing_.”  
  
“You have soap?” Scott asked hopefully. God, he looked exactly the same, with that puppy dog expression. Well, he was older, and his face was totally morphed by the werewolf thing, but it didn't matter. He was so _Scott_ and Stiles had missed him _so much_.  
  
“On the rock.” Stiles pointed toward the drying supplies. “There's shampoo, too. Knock yourself out, amigo.”  
  
“Righteous,” Scott exclaimed. A second later, he was splashing in the water, every ounce the youthful puppy.   
  
“It's like going back in time five years,” Stiles sighed. “Scott and I used to camp out on top of the department store in the community and make up stories about the constellations. All of them were stupid, you know, 'That one's a man eating a toad,' and all that, but they were awesome.”  
  
“Sounds fun,” said D, and Stiles thought he heard a note of dejection in there.  
  
“Do you have a community of people out there?” he asked, feeling stupid for not asking earlier. D shook his head, and Stiles felt like something inside him had been crushed. “Oh. Well, there's me and there's Scott, and you're welcome to join our club.”  
  
“Yeah?” D asked, and he sounded so damn hopeful, Stiles couldn't refuse him if he wanted to.   
  
“Definitely,” Stiles affirmed, grinning.  
  
D's responding smile could have lit the sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! Chapter six!
> 
> I'm beginning to realize this fic isn't quite as porny as I led you all to believe. Blame me for not reading over it before making such promising claims. My bad, lovelies. BUT there IS porn next chapter, so hold onto your hats and try not to hate me too much. :)
> 
> As always, un-beta'd. If anyone is interesting in beta-ing for this story, or just has some corrections for me, let me know!

Everyone always thought that the apocalypse was a doom-y, gloom-y sort of affair. They assumed that humans would either blaze out in war and hellfire or fade away in sickly whimpers and choked, gurgling confessions. Pessimists, capitalists, and extremists believed that humanity wouldn't go without a fight and would make the Earth fester and die along with it. Optimists and realists believed that humanity would blink out just as it blinked in. The world would equalize around the loss, and humanity's passing would make way for another great life form.  
  
It was all very depressing, no matter how you looked at it. Humanity kinda sucked, in that it has singularly caused the most damage the world has ever seen, but that didn't make its end suddenly righteous.  
  
But laying there, on the rocky shore of a slow, winding river, basking in the glow of Californian summer sun, Stiles thought that maybe the apocalypse wasn't such a bad thing. If you'd asked him a week ago, he would have had to force on a happy front and pretend that it wasn't terrible that everything he loved was, essentially, dying out slowly. He didn't know any better. Everything he'd learned in his life has told him that getting Turned was an endgame, and that there was no hope.  
  
That seemed kind of melodramatic, now, not to mention inaccurate. D was one of the best people Stiles had ever met, and his status as werewolf was secondary to his status as person. He was a generous, thoughtful, kind-hearted man. He couldn't help his claws, or his fangs, or his permanently scowling Were-wrinkles, just as Stiles couldn't help his dumb, pointed nose and his proliferation of moles.  
  
And Scott was exactly the same, minus some talking and plus some body language. He still acted like a doofus, and he still acted like the world was the coolest, most fascinating thing ever. He was still the guy that Stiles had befriended all those years ago, fighting over a Playstation DS the raiders had found. (They shared it until Scott got Turned. Now, it lies dusty, unused, on its own shelf in Stiles' room. Whenever he finds a game card, he adds it to the pile on the shelf and wonders if Scott would like it or not. He always thinks that he would.)   
  
But the truth, the one that Stiles had been trying desperately to ignore, was that werewolves eat humans, and humans _were_ dying out as a species.  
  
"Hey, guys," Stiles said, breaking the companionable silence that had fallen over the area, "I hate to spoil the mood, here, but why do you guys eat people?"  
  
D and Scott tensed, sharing a silent conversation over Stiles' head. He had to admit, he'd been totally confused about how werewolves could communicate without talking, but now he totally saw it. He couldn't quite understand it, of course, but he wasn't bitter. Much.  
  
"Hard to explain," Scott said, dragging the words as if he was thinking them over as he spoke them.  
  
"There's a Hunger," D explained, and Stiles recognized that this was the sort of thing that came with a capital 'H'. "It makes us crazy."  
  
"Rabid," Scott interjects helpfully. "Mindless. Need food. Food people."  
  
"So this crazy, intense capital-H-Hunger comes over you, and you don't ever wonder why?" Stiles asked, half shocked and half indignant. "You just run out and kill people?"  
  
"S'hard," D said defensively. "Can't think properly."  
  
"Yeah, but what about afterwards?" Stiles argued, suddenly wishing he was a little bit more dressed for this conversation. "Don't you sit back and think about _why_ you need to eat people?"  
  
"Part of being werewolf," Scott said, shrugging. "Smell great, hear great, heal, run fast, eat people."  
  
"I refuse to believe that," Stiles declared. "I'm no expert on the supernatural, but that sounds fishy as hell. Nothing should have overwhelming, undeniable urges like that. But I'm going to drop it, because today has been awesome and I refuse to let myself bring the mood down. So, tell me about being werewolves. Do you guys hang out? Are there werewolf dates? A glass of wolfsbane wine under the new moon? Spill."  
  
"Werewolves are different," D said, his brow furrowed. Stiles, for the sake of his sanity and everyone's continued comfort, firmly did not notice how attractive it was. Even though D's brow was kind of constantly furrowed. "Things simpler. Smell intent, react."  
  
"We have courting," Scott added. "Like dates, but more obvious. We say, 'I want the sex. You want the sex? I want the sex.' Done."  
  
Stiles burst into laughter, laughing even harder when D and Scott joined in. Stiles couldn't stop for almost two minutes, and by the time he was done, he was aching. "Nuh uh. Really?" Stiles wiped a tear from his eye, pushing at a stitch in his side. "That's the best dating style I've seen ever."  
  
"There's more," D said, rolling his eyes despite his grin. "Wolves mate for life, werewolves, too. Sex is sex. Courting is serious."  
  
"Whoa," Stile said, "that's, like, vastly different. So, easy question first, what happens if you guys just want a bit of the old In-Out, In-Out?"  
  
"Gross, bro," Scott growled, looking disgusted. Stiles smiled beatifically.  
  
"Scent," D answered, cheeks just slightly tinged pink, "smell aroused."  
  
 _You mean like I have this entire time?_ Stiles thought, wincing. "Seems simple enough. What about courting?"  
  
"Scent, gifts, support," D said looking distinctly uncomfortable. "Must prove good mate."  
  
"And by gifts, I'm assuming you mean dead animals and the like?" Stiles inferred. "Like, food and stuff?"  
  
"Food, or something pretty. Werewolves still people," Scott reminded Stiles, who felt very embarrassed about the implication that they were anything less. "Females like jewelry, new clothes. Males less picky."  
  
"Nice to know things haven't changed much," Stiles joked, thinking about how much Jackson had had to pamper Lydia before she'd even consider going on a date with him. That said, Jackson was an asshat, so maybe Lydia was being smart in making him bend over backwards. "What do you mean, 'support,' though?"  
  
D and Scott shared another silent discussion. Stiles was beginning to hate those. "Werewolf society layered," D hedged. "Territory, mates, food. Must be careful."  
  
"Fights rare," Scott continued, looking scared. "Weres careful. Can't go Alpha."  
  
D growled warningly, and Scott looked even more scared. Stiles felt something cold pour down his back. "What's an Alpha?"  
  
D huffed, sniffing the air for a moment. He must have deemed it safe, because he answered Stiles. "Were kill other Were, turn Alpha. Alphas stronger, faster. More feral. Cruel."  
  
"You guys are scared of them," Stiles realized. It felt like a  stone had been dropped into his stomach, weighing him down. "With good reason, it seems. How come humans don't know about them?"  
  
"Very rare," Scott replied. "Fight each other for power. Don't hunt humans. Weres bring kills."  
  
"You mean, like as sacrifices?" Stiles said. D and Scott nodded, and Stiles wanted to ball up and die. "So basically, what you're telling me, is that there's a meta werewolf, one that humans have never seen, that's even more cutthroat and savage than you guys during a Hunger?"  
  
"Yeah," Scott said, looking like Stiles felt. "Sucks."  
  
"But rare," D reminded them, and for once, Stiles was grateful for his level-headedness. "Keep to themselves. Never around."  
  
"Well, at least there's that," Stiles said, only half joking. "So, my attempts to make conversation light-hearted failed horribly. Anyone else got ideas?"  
  
"Oh, wait," D said, leaping up and running into the trees, jumping up from branch to branch. He came back a second later, holding something delicately between his hands. "Here."  
  
He opened his hand to reveal a tiny, colorful hummingbird. He offered the bird to Stiles, who accepted it with wide eyes. It twisted its neck around, chirping brightly. "I'm not hurting it, or anything, right? You'd be able to smell that."  
  
"Little scared," Scott said, sniffing. "Curious. Not hurt."  
  
"Wow," Stiles breathed, trailing one finger over the minuscule feathers on the bird's head. It twisted its head around the touch, gleaming like polished jewels. "It's beautiful. You tend to forget things like this exist in the community. Everything's so gray."  
  
"That's nature," D said, shrugging. "Beautiful, hidden."  
  
Stiles opened his hands, letting the bird fly free. It perched on his palm for a moment, pecking lightly at his skin, before taking off into the trees.  
  
"You know, it's kind of unfair that you barely speak and you're still more poetic than I am," he complained, smiling. "And you're made of solid muscle. _And_ you have good comic books. It gives a guy a complex."  
  
D looked embarrassed for a moment, but then his eyes lit up. "But you have chocolate."  
  
"My saving grace!" Stiles cried, throwing his hands up in the air. "I happened to have chocolate in my bag. Obviously we are now totally on par."  
  
"Chocolate?" Scott asked, perking up. Stiles knew he shouldn't be making dog jokes, but Scott made it really hard to not compare him to a puppy.   
  
"Make that _had_ chocolate in my bag," Stiles corrected, wincing. "We were hungry. Sorry."  
  
"Oh," Scott said, looking downtrodden. "Never mind."  
  
"I'll try to get you some sometime, okay?" Stiles promised.  
  
"Okay!" And it was like Scott had never been disappointed in the first place. Motherfucking puppy werewolf.   
  
"Wait," D said, holding up a finger. He walked over to his jeans and bent down, searching through the stones and presenting Stiles with one hell of a view.  
  
"Dude," Scott said, nudging him with a grimace, "stop." Stiles remembered that werewolves could smell arousal, and wondered just how often D had smelled Stiles' attraction to him. How utterly humiliating.  
  
"Here, said D, returning. He sat and offered Scott his prize, a soggy Reese's cup.  
  
"D!" Scott gasped, taking the treat gently, like it was made of glass. "Ready for mating."  
  
D laughed and Stiles, getting the joke (thank God), snorted. "Was saving it," D said, "but you have it."  
  
"Awesome," Scott breathed, unpeeling the foil with his claws and  popping the treat into his mouth, falling backwards in ecstasy. "Peanut butterrr." The 'r' stretched into a happy growl.   
  
"You are amazing," Stiles said to D, feeling that same deep feeling from earlier swell in his chest. "Absolutely and totally." And he was sure that, if D checked his heartbeat, it would be thundering, but he didn't care. He was falling for D, and fast. He could only hope that the imminent rejection was painless, because there was no preventing it now.   
  
"Your chocolate," D said, smiling that secret smile. "So you, too." The feeling in Stiles' chest continued to expand, pressing against his ribcage.   
  
"You guys are gross," Scott interrupted, standing and walking over to his jeans. "I'm out. Thanks for chocolate."  
  
"See you later?" Stiles asked hopefully, tamping down on the butterflies in his stomach. (They were gross together? Like, in the good way? Like, in the 'Stiles may have a chance in Hell' way?)  
  
"For sure, yo," Scott agreed. "Bye, D." He waved.  
  
"S," D replied, nodding. S ran into the trees and out of sight.  
  
"So," Stiles said, feeling a little awkward now that him and D, naked. "This turned into quite the adventure, huh?"  
  
"Makes sense," D said, staring at Stiles with his head tilted, "you and Scott. Same energy. Good friends."  
  
"Yeah," Stiles said. "We were closer than brothers. Losing him was-- it was awful. I thought he'd died. I didn't know any better, and people at the community aren't very optimistic about werewolves. To them, he's as good as dead. But he's not, he's alive and he's still Scott, and it's _awesome_. "  
  
"Happy for you," D replied, grinning sadly. "Must be nice."  
  
"Hey," Stiles retorted, "none of that. We're a three-man wolf pack." He punched D on the shoulder lightly. "Got that?"  
  
"Got it," D said, wide-eyed. Stiles was beginning to read him well enough to recognize what D was feeling: wonder, happiness, and hope, though he was trying hard to suppress the hope. Stiles didn't want to ask why; he was scared the answer would crush him. Something had made D lose hope, and it was so terrible that he felt like he could never hope again. Stiles wasn't sure he was prepared for that kind of baggage just yet.  
  
So Stiles did what he was best at: he compartmentalized all of his feelings about D-- the love, the empathy, the lust, everything that wasn't easy friendship-- away in his heart. "Think our clothes are dry yet?"  
  
They went over and checked. The jeans were a little damp, but everything else was fine. They put on their clothes, Stiles wincing when he saw D put his jeans on commando. One word: chafing. But D's junk was none of his business, so he didn't say anything. The guy had been living on his own for God knows how long, and he seemed fine.   
  
Stiles got back on D's back, feeling more idiotic than ever, now that he'd seen his best friend traipse off like it was nothing. Stupid, lame Stiles and his stupid, lame normalness.  
  
Stiles rested his head against the back of D's neck, closing his eyes against the rush of scenery. Fatigue was creeping into the corners of his mind, worming between his shoulder blades and into the arches of his feet. It was hard to keep his emotions in check constantly, especially the sexy ones. And all of the revelations about Scott, and the Alpha business… it was exhausting.  
  
D started climbing before too long, and Stiles realized that they were home. _And by home_ , he chastised himself, _you mean D's home. Not yours. You belong at the community._  
  
But that train of thought was too heavy for today. Stiles had thought enough. So he tacked the train car onto his definition of 'home' and didn't think about it too much. D pulled himself up into the train car and let Stiles go.  
  
"Fuck," Stiles said, looking at the mess on the bed. "My shit's on the bed."  
  
D rolled his eyes. Stiles didn't see him do it, but he knew that sigh well enough. "So move it."  
  
"Ugh, work, work," Stiles complained, sitting in a clear patch on the blankets and shoving his stuff back into his bag. D picked up the worn paperback, a copy of the first _Harry Potter_ book. "Oh, you can read that, if you want. It's one of my favorites. I've never found the rest of them, but I hear they're good."  
  
D walked wordlessly over to a crate and pulled out a stack of books, which he brought back. He sat on the blankets next to Stiles, who saw the books and gasped.  
  
"Oh my God," he said, taking the rest of the series out of D's arms. "Oh my God, it's them."  
  
"Never had the first one," D confessed. "Good, though."  
  
"D," Stiles croaked helplessly, "I'm trying really hard not to see you as Prince Charming, here, but you're making it exceptionally difficult."  
  
D looked uncomfortable, and Stiles felt an acid wash of rejection seep into his bones. "Hey," he said, desperate to change the subject, "I'll trade you. You read the first one, I read the others."  
  
"Will," D said, looking unbearably shy, "will you read them? Out loud?"  
  
Stiles couldn't have refused if his life depended on it, because he's a sucker and a masochist. They settled down in the train car and Stiles read until the it got to dark to see. Harry had just gotten to Diagon Alley. "Guess that's it for tonight," Stiles said, yawning. "We can continue this tomorrow."  
  
Then D did the unthinkable. He plucked the book out of Stiles' hands and, in slow, stuttering words, began to read. His voice got gruff when he read in Hagrid's voice and everything. Stiles bit his lip and willed the persistent deep bubble in his chest to go away, but it didn't. It couldn't. Stiles was in love. With a mysterious, amazing werewolf that was too emotionally scarred to feel hope. And didn't love Stiles back.  
  
Fuck his _life_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, guys!
> 
> This chapter comes with two warnings. Yeah, two. Buckle your seatbelts. The first is that this chapter is angsty and D partakes in slight self-harm, which may be triggery if you're especially sensitive to that stuff. I promise it's not too explicit or gross, but I also know that sometimes it doesn't have to be either of those things to be potent. So yeah, feel free to skip it (and just think "MANPAIN" really hard to compensate) and you'll be fine. Second, this chapter is definitely NSFW. 
> 
> Un-beta'd.

Once Stiles was asleep, D stood and left the car silently, running out into the woods. As much as he would have loved to curl his body around Stiles', he had thinking to do, and he always thought best among the trees. And he needed to get out of his home, which was beginning to reek of tangy spices, which mingled in with the smoky, musky smell of D like they belonged together. He couldn't think straight when surrounded by the scent of _them_.  
  
He needed to maintain a healthy distance, and he hadn't been. D was being selfish, so unbearably selfish, and it was going to hurt him in the long run. Stiles was like a revelation, bright and shiny and wonderful, and it made D feel like less of a burnt, tarnished disaster. And D hated himself for basking in it like some naïve pup. He was naïve once; he couldn't afford it again. Not again.  
  
D pushed himself to run faster, clawing at trees as he passed. Sticks pierced his skin, scraping up his arms and crunching under his feet. D welcomed the pain. It was a much-needed reminder of his reality: he was a monster, a thing of human nightmares. He could play at civility all he wanted, but this was where he belonged. The forest. The night. The darkness.  
  
Stiles was making it worse, with his ever-present attraction and warm, bubbly feelings. D had smelled the oxytocin in his system; he knew what was happening. Stiles was, for some reason, falling in love with him. And D was falling, too, and he _couldn't_.   
  
Today was something out of D's most secret, darkest fantasies. He'd felt happy all day. He'd woken up to the arousal of his mate, his mate had provided him with food (oh, and how his instincts _loved_ that, the treacherous bastards), they'd relaxed in their home, and then they'd bathed together. Even the entrance of Scott had felt right, somehow. D and Scott were as close to pack as werewolves could be, and the inclusion of Stiles was so perfectly _easy_.  
  
D ripped his claws into his torso, furious at himself for allowing such thoughts to come. But they continued, and D was too weak to resist.  
  
Stiles belonged in nature, D could see it in the way he'd held that bird. D knew Stiles' place was among his people, but it was also among the trees and the creatures of the forest. But he couldn't have both, and it was more important that his mate was safe than happy.  
  
Because that's what Stiles was, for D. There was no point in denying that. Stiles was _it_. It didn't matter that he was human, and it didn't matter that he was male. Stiles was everything D wasn't, hope and eagerness and light and purity and beauty, and D loved it. D loved him.  
  
D dropped to his knees, howling mournfully. D loved Stiles. And he _couldn't_. But he did. D collapsed onto the leaves, rolling into the twigs that poked at his back. He deserved every ounce of pain that came his way.  
  
A few minutes later, the forest smelled of vanilla. Scott.  
  
The werewolf sat down next to D, whimpering at the scent of his friend's agony. "Why?"  
  
"I love him," D replied, curling tighter into himself.  
  
Scott sighed heavily. "Stop doing this, D."  
  
"What?" D sat up, indignant. "Stop loving him? Impossible. Stop hating myself? Impossible."  
  
"Stop denying yourself happiness!" Scott growled, eyes flashing yellow. "He loves you back."  
  
"I know," D said miserably, scratching thin lines into his foot, the flesh healing before any blood had a chance to well. D wished the wounds would linger. He needed to bleed out. Maybe some of his self-hatred would flow out with it.  
  
"Stop that," Scott snarled, grabbing at D's claws. It was a testament to his depression that D didn't react. Werewolves lashed out when they were blocked. If D hadn't felt so shitty, Scott's actions would have been fair reason to start a fight.  
  
"D," Scott said, pleading. "You're wrong. I know I don't know everything… but you are good."  
  
D whimpered, hanging his head. "I don't deserve this."  
  
"Yes, you do," Scott insisted. "Seeing you two today… you don't see it. You two are mates."  
  
"I see it," D sighed. "But he's human."  
  
"And?" Scott asked, angry. "You can't deny the bond. Mates are mates."  
  
"'And?'" D echoed incredulously. "What if I hurt him? What if Hunger comes? He's human. He should be with his family."  
  
"He is," Scott said, like it was that simple. It made D's skin itch. "I know Stiles. He's happy here."  
  
"He can't stay here," D refused. "Scott." He blinked back angry, hot tears, but they fell anyway. "I can't hurt him, too."  
  
"Oh, D," Scott breathed, tears falling down his cheeks, too. "I wish I could make you see. You're worth loving."  
  
D howled a long, painful, broken howl. "I'm not. I ate his boyfriend, Scott. I ate his heart."  
  
A look of pity crossed Scott's face, and he moved to curl up against D's side. Weakling that he was, D allowed it. Scott's scent was comforting, and it washed over D like a gentle, warm wave. He repositioned himself so that he was lying on the grass and Scott curled into him, leaching sadness, love, and companionship. D closed his eyes and let sleep take him, wishing fiercely that he'd grow some resolve overnight.  
  
He woke with the dawn, startling Scott into wakefulness. "I need food for Stiles," he said, standing. "Come with me?"  
  
Scott looked at him warily. "Sure."  
  
They ran all the way to the edge of town, picking through piles of garbage and ruin. They finally found food in a convenience store, and loaded up their arms full of colorful bags. Scott had the foresight to grab bottles of water, too. The run back was slower, as they were careful not to drop any snacks on the ground, but they made it to the train car before midday.  
  
D dropped his armload and took half of Scott's, so that each werewolf had an arm free to climb. They'd come back down for the rest.   
  
Stiles was already awake, worrying his thumbnail between his teeth. "There you are!" he cried, standing up. "Where have you been?"  
  
D dropped his armload of food at Stiles' feet. "Swimming," he said sarcastically. He couldn't help but joke around Stiles; something inside him turned over, hiding away his raging self-hatred and replacing it with warmth.   
  
"Real food?" Stiles wondered, stunned. Pain tweaked in D's chest. He hadn't been providing for his mate. What kind of werewolf was he?  
  
"More at bottom," Scott offered, dropping his load and jumping off the train car to collect the rest of the bags.   
  
"Oh, hey, Scott," Stiles said belatedly. He turned to D, shifting from one leg to another. "Not that I'm not grateful, or anything, but I kind of really _really_ need to pee."  
  
D flicked a claw along his palm-- _bad mate_ \-- and carried Stiles down the train car and into the woods. He peed over Stiles' urine, hiding the scent, and carried Stiles back into the train car.  
  
"So, what's on the agenda for today?" Stiles asked, rummaging through the pile of food on the floor. "Great haul, by the way, guys. I haven't even _had_ some of these before."  
  
Scott lingered in the doorway, reluctant. He wanted to stay with his friend, but he knew that Stiles and D needed some alone time. Like D said, Scott was smart. "Leaving. Friend to meet."  
  
"You have another friend?" Stiles asked happily. "Who is he? Do I know him?"  
  
Scott shook his head. "See you later." He jumped out of the car.  
  
"My question still stands, Mr. Grumpyface. Don't scowl at me! You look like someone shat on your favorite stuffed animal. Wanna talk about it? Or, you know, do anything else, in particular?"  
  
"Coke or Pepsi?"  
  
Stiles blinked. "What?"  
  
"Coke, or Pepsi?"  
  
"Coke," Stiles said blankly. "That's not even a real question."  
  
"Wrong," D said, grinning. "Pepsi."  
  
"My heart just broke a little," Stiles replied, deadpan, and D laughed.   
  
"Boxers or briefs?"  
  
"On me or on others?"  
  
"Both."  
  
"On me? Boxers," Stiles said, opening a bag of Frito's. "They're underwear that double as pajamas, and you can't beat that. On others? Boxer briefs, for sure. You?"  
  
“Dunno. I'm thinking boxer briefs, though.” D grinned evilly, catching the Frito that Stiles threw and popping it in his mouth. He knew it was wrong to tease Stiles, especially after his breakdown the night before, but he couldn't make himself stop. He loved the citrus-y smell of Stiles embarrassed, especially when it mixed with the apple pie warmth of his delight.   
  
And, if he needed an excuse to feed himself later, it was important to keep Stiles happy, not only because he was D's mate, but also because a happy Stiles equals an easy-to-please Stiles, and D could use all the help he could get.  
  
"What about music?" Stiles asked, cracking open a box of cookies. "Beatles or Stones?"  
  
"No idea," D said, snagging a cookie and eating it all in one bite.  
  
"Well," Stiles said, pulling out his iPod, "lucky for you, I have a diverse and exquisite taste in music. I think it's about time we discover who you are."  
  
D agreed wholeheartedly.  
  
Several hours later, they had determined that D was, in fact, a Stones kind of guy, but he also enjoyed the Backstreet Boys and, to Stiles' eternal delight, Madonna.  
  
"Don't know enough to care," D insisted for the third time, feeling exasperated and amused. "Fun music, why shouldn't I like?"  
  
"I just… there are so many stereotypes, here, I don't know where to begin," Stiles snickered over "Vogue." "I would love to see you at a gay club, just once." Not that he knew what a gay club was, and both of them knew it.  
  
"Fuck you, Stiles," D said, anyway, around a mouthful of Funyuns. Stiles hated them, but D thought they were pretty delicious. And he'd picked up mints, so no harm done.  
  
"Yeah, if only, big guy," Stiles sighed, sticking his feet in D's lap. "So, what else do you like? I mean, what can you remember?"  
  
"Not much. My sister smelled like lavender," D said, thinking and taking advantage of the way Stiles seemed to block his self-hatred so that he could bear to think about his family, "so I like that. Books. I think I liked history? Cars. Bread. Green."  
  
"That's a lot!" Stiles said encouragingly. "I mean, I know it seems like dry facts, but seriously, you seemed like a cool guy."  
  
"Not anymore?" D asked, grinning.  
  
"Meh," Stiles said, mock serious. "You're okay, I guess."  
  
D growled playfully and knocked Stiles' feet off his lap, moving at superhuman speed to pin Stiles' legs between his thighs and his arms with his hands, careful to avoid the claws. "Damn straight," he said, staring down at Stiles.  
  
"Yeah," Stiles agreed breathlessly, staring at D's lips. "Yeah, you're pretty okay." He licked his own lips, tongue cherry red from eating a fistful of Twizzlers, and D realized how easy it would be to suck the red right off that tongue, if he just got a little closer.  
  
He nudged Stiles' nose with his own and kissed Stiles gently, little more than a brush of the lips. He began to pull back, to apologize, when Stiles lunged up and kissed D more firmly, sliding his lips purposefully along D's. D groaned, leaning back down into Stiles and releasing his wrists to support himself on his elbows. Stiles immediately took advantage of his newfound freedom and tangled his hands in D's hair, angling his head to kiss him more deeply.  
  
"Gotta say," Stiles murmured, "your hair is much better, clean." D chuckled and Stiles swept his tongue into D's mouth, licking over his fangs. "God, it's not right that your fangs are sexy."  
  
D sucked on Stiles' tongue, delighting in way he could taste sugar leaching out of it. Stiles gasped, arching up, pressing his erection into D's stomach. D rolled his hips down, licking his way into Stiles' mouth and along the neat, sharp edges of his teeth, so unlike D's own.   
  
Stiles' hand pushed out of D's hair, smoothing down his arms and squeezing at the muscles there, before pushing back up and down D's chest. D growled when Stiles grazed a nipple and broke the kiss, licking over the skin on Stiles' neck. Stiles tilted his head back, fucking _offering his throat_ like he didn't know what it meant to do that, and D stifled the urge to bite into the supple flesh, to mark Stiles up like a proper mate.   
  
But he was human, a bite like that would Turn him, and D knew better. He settled for sucking harsh bruises along Stiles' collarbone, worrying the skin delicately between his fangs, careful not to pierce it. Stiles scraped his nails down D's back, shoving his hands down the back of D's jeans to grip his ass.  
  
"God, do you know how this ass has tormented me?" Stiles moaned, voice rough. "These jeans, and at that river, my _God_. Thank God that water was so cold."  
  
"Wouldn't have minded," D purred, nuzzling behind Stiles' ear. "Smell so good."  
  
"Ugh, why does that _work_ for me?" Stiles complained, dragging D's face back to kiss him again. His hands skittered down D's torso again, massaging deep into his abs before trailing coyly along the waistband of D's jeans.  
  
"Don't tease," D huffed, pushing his hips into Stiles' touch.   
  
"Yeah, okay," Stiles replied, unfastening the button and slipping one hot hand into the gap. D gasped at the smooth, tentative touch of Stiles on his dick, so different from his own rough, hasty one. "Fuck, your cock is so perfect," Stiles babbled, tugging it out from D's jeans and peering down to look at it. "I want it inside me so _bad_."  
  
D snarled, pulling away from Stiles, though it pained him greatly. "You first. Want to watch you come."  
  
"I can three-thousand percent do that," Stiles agreed, rushing to unbutton his pants. He pulled his cock out over the elastic of his boxers, but that wasn't enough. D hooked two fingers in the belt loops of the jeans and tugged them the rest of the way off, throwing them somewhere at the opposite end of the train car. Stiles shucked his boxers, getting the drift, before grabbing at his cock again.  
  
"This might be embarrassing," he groaned, spreading his legs so that D could watch, "but I had a fantasy just like this two days ago."  
  
Two days ago? D thought back. Was that the night he--? It _was_. D groaned, resting his head on Stiles' knee. "Tell me."  
  
Stiles's arousal skyrocketed, and he squeezed at his dick, whimpering. "You had just come in," he said, eyes fluttering shut as he undoubtedly played out the fantasy behind closed eyelids, "and I was here, just like this. You didn't know what to do, so you just watched me, just like you are now."  
  
"And?"  
  
"And--oh, fuck-- and you nuzzled down into my dick--oh my _God_ , yeah, just like that-- and licked at the precome at the tip-- sweet _fuck_!"  
  
D smacked his lips around the taste of Stiles' precome. It was bitter and musky, and D loved it. He swooped back down and licked more fully at the head of Stiles' dick, curling his tongue into the slit when it oozed more fluid.   
  
"D," Stiles said urgently, "D, I'm gonna--"  
  
D very, very carefully lowered his top lip to meet his tongue, pushing down on Stiles' hips and sucking hard. Stiles cried out, hips jittering as he came. D swallowed it down, relishing the fact that he could taste just how hard he'd made Stiles come.  
  
"D," Stiles said, dopey, "D, I want you to come on me. Can you do that?"  
  
"Watch me," D growled curling a fist around his own dick and stripping it ruthlessly. It didn't take much to get him off-- he was so wound up, he could hardly contain himself-- and he did, in long, gushing spurts that striped up Stiles' chest. D dropped his head, eyes closed, riding the aftershocks of the most powerful orgasm he'd ever experienced.  
  
"D," Stiles said, voice laced with wonder, "your face."  
  
"What?" D said lifting his head blearily. Huh, his mouth felt different. D wondered what the was about.  
  
"No, D, you don't understand," Stiles said, smiling widely as he reached down to trail his fingers over D's brow. "Your face… it's _human_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CLIFFHANGER WHOA! :D
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone!
> 
> Chapter 8! No real warnings this time, but some mysteries are solved and we meet some new faces. 
> 
> Un-beta'd.

"I… what?" D asked, befuddled. He must have misheard Stiles, because what he was saying was impossible.   
  
"You look human!" Stiles repeated, looking more and more excited. "Wait, do you have a mirror around here? You must have a mirror." He scurried off to look through the crates while D tried to process what Stiles just said. He reached up to touch his face but stopped when he saw his hands. His normal, clawless, furless hands. He made a fist pushing his nails into his palms, and gasped when they left little half-moon indents. He was human.  
  
But wait, no, he wasn't. He could still smell Stiles and sex, and he could hear Stiles' excited heartbeat thumping away in his chest. He could hear the Weres humping a mile away and the half-hearted growls of the encampment. He was still a werewolf, but he looked human. How was that possible?  
  
"Here!" Stiles cried, pulling out a plastic handheld mirror. "Look at yourself! You're beautiful!" He thrust the mirror under D's nose, and D saw himself for the first time.  
  
His brow had cleared, making way for massive, expressive eyebrows. He touched them curiously, rubbing against the grain to rumple them, then smoothing them back out again. The brows hung over clear, pale green eyes, fringed with black eyelashes. A straight, aquiline nose cut down his face, flaring into delicate nostrils over small, plump lips. His massive sideburns melted away to reveal heavy, dark stubble edging on full-blown beard territory. D scrubbed his new, dull nails over the scruff, enjoying the rasp of it.  
  
The mirror shook, and D looked up to see Stiles crying silently. "Sorry, I know-- totally emasculating, here-- but God, it's like watching a baby discover his feet. A really sexy, fuckable baby discovering his Greek god, Adonis feet. This is a bad metaphor."  
  
D looked back down at the mirror, looking for the attractiveness Stiles saw. Instead, he saw flashes of his eyes on another, softer, rounder face. His nose hung on a man's older, more worn brow. His aunt's lips. Oh, God.  
  
D growled, running past Stiles and leaping out of the car. He landed on clawed hands, fangs snapping at thin air. He looked at the woods, once, before turning away and making his way toward the camp. He didn't need to reconnect with nature, he needed to remember what he was: a monster.   
  
The hub of activity was at the opposite end of the rail yard from D's car-- he'd purposefully chosen a den on the outskirts of the encampment-- so D climbed his way over abandoned train tracks and rubble until he heard the din of growls of his society.  
  
Werewolves either moved a lot or not at all. They didn't mill around or wander. Those sitting around the hub were in the 'not at all' category. Some were alone, curled into themselves like they wished they could die. That was the curse of being a werewolf: you couldn't kill yourself, and no one else was willing to kill you, either, not when it meant turning Alpha. There was no escape, outside of getting killed by a human, and even then it was a battle to overcome instincts to fight, to kill, to Turn. It was a vicious, despicable life.  
  
Others were lazy, dozing peacefully in the presence of family. Or, at least, as close as you could get to family. D found some familiar faces and sat down, closing his eyes and breathing in the heavy, urine-soaked musk of the encampment. This was his reality, not the domestic little scene he'd built with Stiles. This, filthy, ragged place was his true home.   
  
A large, dark Were smelling of motor oil and ice nudged him, whining softly. D let the love for Stiles well up in his heart, and the Were snuffled, understanding. "Bitches, man."  
  
A blonde, female Were-- the dark one's mate-- snapped at him and gouged thick claws into his leg. The dark Were pulled her into his arms, apologetic, but threw a weary glance at D over her tangle of curls.  
  
The fourth in their circle, a dirty-blonde male with wide eyes and a thin, angular body curled up into D's side. "Talk?"  
  
"Complicated," D sighed, ruffling his hands through the boy's hair. He looked to be around Stiles' age, but there was a heavy sadness that lingered, making him seem older. D thought that maybe, out of all the Weres he'd ever met, he was most like this one. They'd both lost someone, and it still hurt for both of them. And this Were had died with a name tag pinned to his chest, the lucky bastard. His name was Isaac.  
  
"Talk," Isaac repeated, this time demanding. The dark Were and the female nodded, prompting. D sighed heavily. Where to begin?  
  
"I changed."  
  
"Love does that," the female pointed out, smiling wryly.   
  
"No," D replied, struggling for words. "Actually changed."  
  
"How?" Isaac asked, golden eyes widening.  
  
D thought of that moment leading up to his climax, how happy he'd been, there, with Stiles. How in love.  
  
The Weres inhaled as one, freezing. "Human?" the dark one growled. Isaac reached up a carful hand, pulling down D's lip to admire the straight, even teeth there. He pulled away his hand quickly, stunned.  
  
D let go of the feeling, and grimaced as he felt his face change. "Still me. I'm changing."  
  
"Feel different?" The female asked, looking hopeful.  
  
"In what way?" D responded. It felt different in many ways, after all.  
  
"No wolf, right? Feel different."  
  
"The wolf's still there," D said. "But it's constrained, under the surface. My instincts are still there, but _duller_ , like I can ignore them, if I want to. And it's freeing, in a way. No claws to rip things, no fangs to tear into things. You can touch without pain."  
  
The three Weres stared at him, all in a state of shock. "What?" D asked defensively.  
  
"Sound human," the dark Were breathed. "Words."  
  
"Eloquent," Isaac supplied.  
  
"Oh," D said, thinking back. "Huh. Guess so."  
  
The female sniffed at him, eyes suspicious. "Why? Around human?"  
  
D's heart thumped loudly, answering for him. The dark Were and the female bared their teeth growling. "Please," D cried, "stop.  He's safe, I promise."  
  
"Mate," Isaac realized, pulling away. "He's your mate." The other two Weres froze.  
  
"Kind of?" D replied, running his fingers through his hair and wincing when the claws cut into his scalp. "Like I said, complicated."  
  
"Not really," the dark Were spoke up. "You love him. He changed you. Mate."  
  
"No," D growled, frustrated. Why could no one understand how difficult this was? "He's human. He belongs with his family."  
  
Isaac whined, sadness and empathy turning his normally sweet scent even sweeter, and richer. He knew how important family was to those who had lost it. D hooked an elbow around Isaac's neck, resting his chin atop Isaac's head. He was so young.   
  
"Speaking as him," the female pointed out, "or _for_ him?"  
  
"There's no difference," D sighed, too tired to get angry anymore. "He doesn't deserve this life."  
  
"Have you seen the community?" Isaac retorted. "It's not much. Not better than love, for sure."  
  
Silence followed the statement. "Who sounds like a human, now?" D asked, teasing.  
  
"Serious," Isaac grumbled, trying to hide a proud grin. "Community sucks. Humans, yeah; not much else."  
  
"Talk to him," the female suggested. "Love doesn't… have to suck."  
  
"Can you teach us?" the dark Were rumbled. "How to change?"  
  
"Have to figure it out myself, first," D replied.  
  
"What you think of?" the female asked.  
  
D blushed. Somehow, he didn't think an orgasm was quite what they were asking about. He dug deeper, feeling the love and joy of sharing something so intimate with Stiles. He remembered the way their scents mixed with that of sex, hanging like a heady perfume in the train car.   
  
"Gorgeous," the female said, breaking through his concentration. D licked along his teeth; he'd changed again. The dark Were grumbled, and the female bent up to kiss him. "Objectively," she reassured him.  
  
"And?" Isaac prompted, looking like a child peering into a candy store.  
  
"I think of him," D said simply. "My love, his love, our scents. His happiness, and my awe that he could possibly be happy with me." It sounded so corny, said aloud. D scratched at the denim of his jeans, expecting them to shred, but instead his nail rasped over the fabric.   
  
The female looked at the dark Were and concentrated on his face, breathing deeply to inhale their scents. Slowly, her claws retracted and her features melted back to reveal a beautiful, young blonde woman.  
  
"Did I do it?" she asked the group, smiling. "Oh, teeth weird."  
  
"Babe," the dark Were breathed, cradling her smooth skin between his large, furry hands. "Beautiful."   
  
Isaac groaned, and the group turned to see him shifting, as well. "Painful."  
  
"Who?" D asked, curious. Isaac didn't have a mate.  
  
"Dad," Isaac said quietly. "Before."  
  
D scooped Isaac into a tight hug, squeezing his eyes shut. He looked even younger, even more vulnerable, as a human, and it broke D's heart.   
  
"How shift back?" the female asked, rubbing at her forehead thoughtfully.  
  
"Think of wolf," D answered, releasing Isaac. He sprouted claws and fangs, demonstrating. A second later, both Isaac and the female had shifted back.   
  
"Whoa," Isaac said, "instincts."   
  
D laughed. "Yeah, it's weird. But now you know."  
  
"D," the dark Were said gravely, "this is serious. We can change."  
  
"Yeah," Isaac agreed, "changes everything, doesn't it?"  
  
"I don't know," D said heavily. "How? Still have Hunger, still at war."  
  
"We can fight our instincts," the female hissed, eyes darting back and forth like she was thinking of something monumental. "Hunger is an instinct."  
  
That stopped everyone dead. "What?" D asked carefully.  
  
"Think!" she said gleefully. "Hunger is instinct. Human-form fight instinct. _We can fight Hunger_."  
  
"Careful," the dark Were warned, looking around, "others can hear. Unsafe."  
  
"Okay," D said, his mind racing, "okay, fuck. This is big. I'm going home, talk to Stiles. You guys act cool."  
  
He stood and ran back to the train car, racing up the scaffolding and into the car. Stiles hurriedly scrubbed at his cheeks, but D could smell the salt from where he was standing. Stiles had been crying.   
  
All thoughts of his news left, and he rushed to Stiles' side. "What's wrong?"  
  
Stiles laughed wetly. "Seriously? 'What's wrong?' Are you kidding?"  
  
D fought to keep his emotions in check. Things had finally started to fall together, and he couldn't lose that. He could fix this, whatever it was. He had to. "Talk to me."  
  
"I don't even know where to begin," Stiles burst out, sniffing. "I mean, I just… I love you so much, and that's crazy, and Danny died two days ago and _that's_ crazy, and you treat me so hot and cold, and Scott's alive, and everything's just so _crazy_."  
  
D shifted into his human form. It was getting easier and easier, the slide of hair, the crack of bone. "I'm sorry."  
  
"No," Stiles said vehemently. "Don't you dare be sorry, D. These have been the best two days of my life, okay? Don't you dare take that away."  
  
"How can I not be," D asked, miserable, "when I've caused all of this pain? This is on me."  
  
"I'm not in pain, D," Stiles ground out, "I'm overwhelmed. Three days ago, I was raiding a pharmacy, looking for antibiotics. Now, I'm hidden away in a den full of werewolves, having a clandestine romance with one of said werewolves and rediscovering a friendship with another. It's a lot to handle."  
  
"Yeah, it is," D said, heart growing leaden. He'd known this was going to happen. Stiles would realize how insane his life had become, and he'd want out, D had figured that out from the start. So why did it tear at his heartstrings, now?  
  
"You know I'm totally in love with you, right?" Stiles asked, wiping snot on his sleeve. "Like, head over heels, no looking back, love."  
  
"Yeah," D said, pain like bile rearing in his throat. Why was this so _hard_?  
  
Stiles sobbed anew, and D pulled himself out of his self-wallowing. "And, it's just-- it sucks, because you don't love me back, and I totally get that, but it still sucks so much."  
  
"What?" D asked disbelievingly. "What do you mean?"  
  
"Well, I totally forced myself on you, didn't I? I was so attracted to you, and I probably reeked of it all the time, and it messed with your head. Every time I try to talk to you, you run away. And then we did handjobs, and it felt so perfect, like you actually--"  
  
"Stiles," D interrupted, curling his hands around Stiles' jawline. "I love you, too."  
  
"You… what?" Stiles blinked rapidly. "Huh?"  
  
D leaned forward and kissed Stiles, licking the tears out of the corners of his lips. "Stiles," he said against Stiles' skin, "I love you. I love your hair, and your nose, and your laugh, and the way your voice pitches up when you read as Hermione. I love your moles. I love your voice. I love your hands. I love your sense of humor. I love how much you talk. I--"  
  
"Whoa. That's, whoa," Stiles cut in. "No one loves how much I talk. Not even me."  
  
"I do," D promised. "I love you, Stiles. And I love how much you care about me, knowing what I am. You're amazing, and I'm so sorry that I ever let you think otherwise."  
  
"What do you mean, 'what you are?'" Stiles demanded.   
  
"I'm a monster, Stiles," D said, thinking it obvious.   
  
"A monster?" Stiles questioned. "Do you honestly think that?"  
  
"I kill humans, of course I am."  
  
"On that basis, I'm a monster, too," Stiles retorted. "I've killed dozens of werewolves, and humans have been killing other humans since the very dawn of humanity."  
  
"No," D denied, "it's different."  
  
"The hell, it is!" Stiles argued, shoving at D's chest. "You and  Scott told me all about it, remember? You can't blame yourself for what the Hunger forces you to do, D. That's like blaming me for having a ridiculously short attention span. It's something you can't fight."  
  
"Don't say that," D said hollowly. "You don't know."  
  
"What don't I know?" Stiles returned, rapid-fire. "Explain to me, Oh Great Werewolf, what I'm missing."  
  
"I killed my entire family," D forced out, each word a stab in the gut. Stiles stopped, the fight rushing out of him.  
  
"What?"  
  
"I was Turned right before the Change," D croaked. "I was just a kid. No one knew how people were getting infected yet, and everyone lived in fear of the werewolves. I was out, playing in the backyard of my family's home, and I ventured into the woods. Everyone always told me 'Don't go into the woods, it's not safe out there,' but I didn't listen. I was a stupid kid. Something attacked me, ripping out a gouge in my leg, but it got shot. Some blonde woman had killed it. She told me to go home, and I ran. God, I ran so _fast_. I should have figured it out."  
  
"You'd been Bitten," Stiles whispered, looking shell-shocked.  
  
"Yeah," D said brokenly. "I got home, and the bite was just gone, so I pretended that nothing happened. I didn't want to get in trouble. God, it's almost funny. I didn't want to get _punished_. Jesus."  
  
"You didn't know any better," Stiles said firmly. D ignored him.  
  
"Two days later, my first Hunger hit. I Turned. We were eating dinner-- I can remember it so clearly-- and my little sister was telling us about her first day of kindergarten. Her _first day of kindergarten_ , Stiles. And the Hunger hit. And I killed them all. My entire family."  
  
Stiles didn't say a word, but silent tears were streaming down his face. D felt a cold drip on his chin; he'd started crying, too. He'd shifted, as well, turning back into the monster that had murdered everything he loved, and that was fitting. This was his reality, causing everyone around him pain. He kept to himself for a reason. He should never have let Stiles in, because now he _knew_ , and he was going to leave and D would be alone, again. Like he should be. But now there would be a new hole in his heart, where long fingers and snappy comebacks used to live, and it was going to be unbearable.  
  
"I… I'm not sure what to say," Stiles confessed. "I don't--"  
  
"It's okay," D reassured him, heart already beginning to break. "I can take you home in the morning."  
  
"What?" Stiles asked, loud in the silence of the car. "No, that's not it at all, D."  
  
"It's _okay_ ," D repeated.  
  
" _No_ , it's _not_ ," Stiles retorted, "because you aren't _listening_. I don't want to go home, not because of this. D, just listen to me! You're not a monster."  
  
"Oh?" D asked, suddenly angry. He gripped Stiles' wrists and twisted, yanking Stiles to the floor in less than a heartbeat. He sat on Stiles' knees, tightening his grip on Stiles' wrists until the bones ground together. "You sure?"   
  
"Yes."  
  
D snapped his fangs, annoyed. "Your heartbeat is racing. You're terrified of me."  
  
"No, not of you," Stiles said, soft but confident. "My body's reacting to sudden, inescapable capture, sure, but I could never  be scared of you. Never."  
  
D collapsed onto Stiles' chest, releasing his wrists and curling his claws into the palms of his hands. Stiles carded his fingers through D's hair, and his heartbeat relaxed. D lay there, frustrated and hopeful, and frustrated _because_ he was hopeful, waiting for the other shoe to drop.  
  
"I can't say I'm okay with what you did," Stiles said haltingly, and D tensed. "But I don't think I should be. What happened--"  
  
"What I did."  
  
"What _happened_ ," Stiles continued, undeterred, "was a tragedy, and those are never okay. But I don't blame you. You were just a kid, D. You had no idea what was happening, and I bet the adults chose not to scare you by telling you about it, either. I would have done exactly the same thing, were I in your shoes. You're not a monster."   
  
"I killed Danny."  
  
Stiles' hand stopped, and his heart thumped. "I know."  
  
"You know?" D asked, sitting up. "How?  
  
"Well, I wasn't sure until just now, but… it fit. There were only four werewolves at the pharmacy, D, and Lydia and I killed the three that attacked us. And when I mentioned cosmic irony, your face twisted, like it hurt you to hear it. It makes sense."  
  
"Doesn't that upset you? At all?" D asked incredulously.  
  
"Of course it does," Stiles said, rolling his eyes. "And I agonized about it when you weren't around, because I assumed you killed him in cold blood. I assumed that all werewolves killed in cold blood. But this Hunger, D… it's put a lot of puzzle pieces together for me. And what happened with Danny? It's just like what happened to your family. I can't blame you for one of those murders and not the other, so I'm choosing to blame you for neither. And I'd like to think I know you well enough to know that, if you could, you'd give everything in your power to bring everyone back to life. But it doesn't matter. They're gone, and I still love you."  
  
D rolled off Stiles, feeling like he'd just gone ten rounds in a boxing ring. Everything hurt in just the way that his healing couldn't fix. "I don't deserve you."  
  
"I know," chirped Stiles, tilting his head to smile at D. He ran his fingers through D's hair, smile softening. "But you've got me anyways. Deal with it."  
  
D closed his eyes and smiled thinly, feeling simultaneously lighter and heavier than he'd ever felt in his life. Stiles clasped his hand and brought it up to kiss at his knuckles, and D, heavy and light and warily happy, fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warning: NSFW sexytimes. Like, mostly.
> 
> Un-beta'd.

Stiles watched D fall asleep before sucking in a massive breath of air.   
  
This was huge. Like, Stiles meant every word that he'd said, and he'd say them again, but _wow_. It all felt way too big inside his eighteen-year-old head.   
  
Part of him yearned for the simplicity of life at the community. Every day had been the same: easy, boring, and effortless. He could use some of that drab, right about now.  
  
But most of him was aching for D. It was obvious from the start of all of this that D had baggage, but hearing it spill out of his twisted, scornful lips had been torture. D walked around every second of every day, thinking that he'd single-handedly murdered his own family.  
  
Well, he _had_ , technically, but not on _purpose_.   
  
Stiles tried to imagine that weight and it crushed him. He could only imagine how much self-hatred D had been bottling up, saving for a sunny day. Suddenly, all of those times D had run out on him made a lot more sense. D was terrified of being happy; he ran out when he couldn't handle it anymore.  
  
Poor baby. If only he could see what Stiles saw. D was magnificent, even more so now that Stiles knew his story. D had broken himself out of the Hunger to save Stiles, and he'd kept him safe from any harm. He fed Stiles and gave him books to read. He befriended Scott and taught him how to survive. He saved Scott, too, hadn't he? He'd shown him the ropes, and Scott hadn't lost himself to the instincts.   
  
He was just so beautiful, inside and out, and he couldn't see it. It broke Stiles' heart.   
  
He lifted D's arm and curled into the gap between it and D's body, resting his head against the shoulder of his Not-So-Big, Not-So-Bad, and waited for the morning to come.  
  
\---  
  
A warm, heavy weight pressed down onto Stiles, hard muscles fitting into the grooves of Stiles' body. _This is a great dream_ , Stiles thought, arching up into the weight. A warm nose pressed into the hollow behind his ear, and blunt teeth worried at the skin on his neck. Scratch that earlier thought; this was an _awesome_ dream.  
  
"Stiles," D groaned, sucking at that spot of skin on his neck. "Smell so good."  
  
Oh. Not a dream, then. Just intensely hot, perfect reality.  
  
"Tell me," Stiles murmured sleepily, rubbing hot hands over the muscles in D's shoulders. "What do I smell like?"  
  
D moaned, pressing his hips down into the vee of Stiles' legs. "Cinnamon. Apples. Sex. Home. _Us_."  
  
Stiles shut his eyes against a wave of arousal. "Ah."  
  
"Do you know how hard it's been?" D growled into Stiles' collarbone. "Waking up with you every morning like this? Smelling so sweet, so perfect, rubbing your body all over me, so needy?"  
  
Stiles shoved his hands down between their bodies, yanking D's pants open and tugging at his cock. "I'd say it's about the same as I've felt, watching you prowl around shirtless like some fairy tale porn star, making my poor eighteen-year-old body go absolutely crazy."  
  
D chuckled, a low rumble that set Stiles' nerves on fire. "Oh, you haven't felt crazy, yet."   
  
He dragged himself down Stiles' body until he was seated comfortably between Stiles' boxer-clad thighs. "These," he said, snapping at the waistband, "off."  
  
Stiles had never moved faster in his life.  
  
"God," D ground out, licking a hot stripe up the underside of Stiles' dick, "I want to fuck you _raw_."  
  
Stiles' head spun, making him feel light-headed. "I think I could be down for that."  
  
D dug his fingers into Stiles' hips, and Stiles felt the sting of barely restrained claws piercing the skin. His hips rocked up, pain adding to the pleasure. "Don't tempt me."  
  
D took a deep breath and sank down onto Stiles' cock, only stopping when the head hit the back of his throat. Stiles' entire body went tense, and he was sure it would have bowed up if D's hands hadn't been holding him in place. So. Fucking. Hot.  
  
D slurped his way back up, licking at the slit before dropping his head back down and doing _something_ with his tongue that brought Stiles right to the edge.  
  
"D," he whimpered, slapping at the hands on his hips, "I'm, I."  
  
D grabbed Stiles' hands and put them on his head, pointedly not putting his own hands back on Stiles' hips. _Oh_.  
  
Stiles thrust up, fingers tugging at D's silky hair. "So good to me," Stiles babbled, "so fucking hot, so perfect."  
  
D hummed and, a second later, Stiles felt a finger press on his hole. "Oh, Jesus fuck-- D!"  
  
He came in a rush, hips jerking up into the D's mouth as white spots burst behind his tightly-closed eyelids. When he came down, D was rutting along the skin between Stiles' hip and leg. "Wait, wait," Stiles gasped, pushing D until he rolled over, off Stiles.   
  
Stiles pushed himself onto his knees and crawled between D's thighs, sucking D's cock down in one fell swoop. D snarled loudly, digging his claws into the blankets. Stiles bobbed quickly, massaging at the foreskin with the flat of his tongue.   
  
D howled, arching his hips up and spilling into Stiles' mouth. Stiles drank it all down greedily, licking gently at the head until D whimpered in discomfort.   
  
Stiles draped himself over D, who seemed boneless. "I love you," he said, enunciating the words clearly.  
  
Stiles kissed him, and D deepened the kiss with a filthy groan. "Love you, too," Stiles said when they came up for air. He rested his head against D's chest, listening to the steady thump of his heartbeat.  
  
They laid like that for a few minutes, lazy and in love, but soon enough Stiles' stomach growled loudly.   
  
"Food?" D asked, smiling.  
  
"Food," Stiles agreed.   
  
They ate through two bags of potato chips and a package of gummy worms, stealing kisses between bites.   
  
"So, I hate to ruin the mood," Stiles said once they'd finished, "but we need to talk."  
  
"Okay," D said cautiously, licking salt off his thumb.  
  
"I don't want you to overreact, okay? But… I think I should go home."  
  
D blinked, shoulders slumping. "Oh. I-- oh."  
  
"Hey, I told you not to overreact," Stiles said, smacking him on the knee. "Hear me out. I've been gone almost four days, and I'm sure everyone is looking for me. My dad's probably got search parties out for me everywhere, and people are probably getting attacked. I need to go back."  
  
"I understand," D said quietly. "Family is important."  
  
"Yeah." Stiles' heart lurched. If anyone knew the importance of family, it was D. "But this isn't an end-all, okay? I'll sneak out and find you. This isn't a good-bye."  
  
"Right," D said, voice hard. He looked like he was about to be sick.  
  
"D," Stiles said, insistent. "I'm serious. I'm not giving you up. Not now, not ever. I thought we'd established this."  
  
"No, I get it," D said, smiling quickly. "I just… instincts. Telling me not to let mate leave. I'll be okay."  
  
"Hey, that reminds me," Stiles said, happy to change the subject, "your speaking is, like, awesome now. Like, last night, you were totally coherent, and everything. You sounded totally human."  
  
"Yeah?" D asked. "I didn't notice."  
  
"Yeah!" Stiles enthused. "Like, subject, predicate, and object. One hundred percent."  
  
"Good," D said, grinning brightly. "I like talking to you."  
  
"Ditto, amigo," Stiles said, bumping D's knee with his own. "So hey, what do you say to bath, part two? Because I was thinking that, you know, we've been doing a lot of getting dirty lately, and I've heard bathing is great for--"  
  
D kissed the words out of his mouth. "Get the soap."  
  
D ran them to the river, stopping to let Stiles take off his hoodie when the day grew hot. They shucked their clothes at the same spot as last time, diving into the water and splashing around. They got into a water fight, shoving waves of water at each other. D won when he knocked Stiles off his feet, wave crashing over his head.   
  
"Fuck you and your super strength," Stiles spluttered, shaking water out of his eyes.  
  
"I think we could manage that," D purred, picking Stiles up by the backs of his thighs. "What do you say?"  
  
"Hmm," Stiles pretended to think as he wrapped his arms around D's neck. "Yeah, okay."  
  
D grinned into Stiles' lips, curving one arm around the small of Stiles' back while the other climbed to his hair. Stiles linked his ankles, grinding down onto D's dick.  
  
They came minutes later, panting into each other's mouths, first D, then Stiles. Stiles unhooked his ankles (because D had held him up _the entire time_ , how sexy was that?) and dropped to the rocky bottom of the river, reveling in the slick slide of their torsos. "Not even an icy river can tame the lusty fires of our love," he declared.  
  
D laughed. "Yeah, but lines like that might just do the trick."  
  
"Fuck you," Stiles gasped, mock-offended. "My lines are stellar. Ebert gives them two thumbs up!"  
  
"I'll show you two thumbs up," D growled, lunging at Stiles. Stiles bounced away, cackling, and ran up the beach to grab the soap.   
  
A second later, D was next to him, growling in a specifically non-sexy way. Stiles looked to the trees; a tall, broad werewolf was watching them both, lips curled back over his fangs. He grinned at D and zeroed in on Stiles, licking his chops.  
  
D moved in front of Stiles, knashing his teeth together. "Mine."  
  
The werewolf stopped, cocking his head in question.  
  
" _Mine_ ," D reiterated, crouching defensively.  
  
Apparently, the werewolf got the hint, because he turned tail and ran. D straightened his back, shifting his features back to human.   
  
"… What was that?" Stiles asked.  
  
"He thought you were food. He was wrong."  
  
"Not that I don't agree, or anything, but that doesn't answer my question. Why did he just run off?"  
  
"Werewolves don't like to fight, remember?" D reminded Stiles. "He knew it was either fight me, or run. He was smart."  
  
"You would have fought him for me?" Stiles asked, wide grin breaking out on his face.  
  
"Of course," D shrugged. "You're my mate."  
  
Stiles pounced, kissing D with everything he had. "You are such a badass boyfriend," he moaned. "I'm gonna treat you so right."  
  
"Um," a voice cut in, "hi."  
  
"Scott!" Stiles cried, breaking out of D's hold. "Amigo! How are you? Wow, it feels like it's been, like, a whole day since we last saw each other!"  
  
"Sarcasm," Scott sighed. "Fuck you."  
  
"No thanks, buddy," Stiles said, grinning. "D's got that covered."  
  
Scott's face twisted into a look of utter disgust. "Please stop."  
  
"Honeymoon period," D said, coming up to stand behind Stiles. "Sorry, but no can do."  
  
"Guys!" another voice rang out, "I found them!" A dark blonde guy came out of the trees, followed by a blonde girl and large, intimidating-looking black dude.   
  
"Isaac," D greeted warmly. "Nice face."  
  
All three of the new arrivals grinned, shifting into their werewolf faces simultaneously. "Thanks," the girl said, "working hard."  
  
"That was both terrifying and awesome," Stiles announced, "which, now that I think of it, kind of sums up my week."  
  
"Stiles," the blonde guy stated. "Hi. Isaac."   
  
"Hold up," Scott said, raising both hands. "What?"  
  
"'What' what?" Stiles replied, furrowing an eyebrow.  
  
"In the butt," the girl finished, giggling.  
  
"Ooh," Stiles said, distracted, "good reference! I like you." She mock-curtseyed in reply.  
  
"Werewolves can go human?" Scott asked, befuddled.  
  
"As of last night, yes," D said. "You have to find something or someone that you love, and focus on it."  
  
Scott screwed up his face in concentration. "Did I do it?"  
  
"Ah, not as such," Stiles said sympathetically. "It's okay, dude. You're a very pretty werewolf."  
  
"No, let me try again," Scott protested, balling up his fists and thinking as hard as he could. Still, nada. "Well, fuck this."  
  
"Took awhile for me, too," the black werewolf said. "It's cool."  
  
"So, do you guys have names?" Stiles asked the as-yet-untitled werewolves. "I mean, I feel weird calling you 'Chick Werewolf' and 'Particularly Large and Scary Werewolf.'"  
  
"No," the girl replied, sighing. "Forgotten."  
  
"Oh," Stiles said, saddened. "Well, henceforth you are Wonder Woman and He-Man. Okay?"  
  
The werewolves considered this for a moment. “Black Widow,” the female said, leaning up to kiss the dark-skinned werewolf-- who must have been her mate-- on the cheek.  
  
“Wolverine,” he returned, smiling down at her. Stiles leaned back into D's chest, heart warmed by the exchange. If only his friends could see this side of werewolves, maybe the war would actually end. These people were no monsters.  
  
“I'm kind of disappointed in myself for not thinking of Wolverine earlier,” he admitted, scratching at his jawline. “I mean, duh.”  
  
“So, why are you here?” D asked, hands coming up to circle over Stiles' hips. Right, they were both naked. Maybe it was time to move away from the insanely sexy werewolf at his back. Stiles shifted and felt D's rock hard erection press into his back. D's grip tightened on his hips. Or, you know, not.  
  
“Heard you,” Black Widow replied. “Meet human.”  
  
Stiles' heart thudded. Had D been talking about him? That was kind of ridiculously cute. “Oh. Hi, I'm Stiles. I like long books and I'd probably enjoy walks on the beach, but I've never been to one. I'm a Pisces.”  
  
“More like Virgo,” Scott teased obnoxiously, golden eyes crinkling up at the corners.  
  
“You know what Scott?” Stiles said without heat. “Fuck you, how's that for Virgo?”  
  
Everyone laughed. “I like him,” Isaac said. “Good job.”  
  
D growled possessively, an agreement, and Stiles shivered. “Hate to be gross, everyone, but D? Could you maybe not do that in front of company? I mean, I certainly don't mind, but I really _don't mind_ , if you catch my drift.”  
  
D immediately stopped, and everyone laughed again. “We should go,” Wolverine said knowingly.  
  
“No! Stay,” Stiles said, exactly the same time that D said, “Yes.”  
  
The trio of werewolves left, laughing, but Scott lingered. “I approve,” he said, gesturing between the two of them in broad gestures, “but also: ew.” He gave them a quick thumbs up and ran off into the trees.  
  
D's grip tightened even more as he pulled Stiles more firmly back into his body. Stiles tilted his head back onto D's shoulder, more than happy to let him do whatever he wanted. At least, until Stiles felt something dripping down the sides of his legs. “Ow,” he said belatedly, realizing that his hips were in a fair amount of pain.  
  
D pulled away instantly, dropping to his knees and whining at the five distinct claw marks on each of Stiles' hips. He leaned forward to lick the blood away, but Stiles stopped him. “Wait, if the Bite Turns people, won't your saliva, you know...?”  
  
D licked at the trail of blood running down Stiles' knee, whimpering. “No,” he said, voice gravelly. “Must have intent.”  
  
“Oh,” Stiles breathed, making a note to ask about that more later, when his boyfriend's tongue wasn't running its way up Stiles' thigh. “Carry on, then.”  
  
D cleaned off all of the blood on one leg before suckling at the tiny holes, whining sadly all the while. It really shouldn't have been hot, but, well, that was probably going to be the name of Stiles' autobiography at this point. 'That Really Shouldn't Be Hot: A Memoir.' Stiles' skin began to itch in those spots, and he pulled D's head back with a gasp. They watched, fascinated, as the holes began to heal, lacing closed with fresh, pink skin before disappearing completely.  
  
“Did you know that would happen?” Stiles breathed, running light fingertips over his healed hip.  
  
“No,” D said, sounding surprised. He sniffed at the unblemished skin. “They're gone.”  
  
Stile did an about face, presenting his other hip to D. “Get to work, Dr. Love.”  
  
D chuckled into the sharp bone of Stiles' hips, nipping at it before licking the claw marks closed. “You're too young to be making KISS references.”  
  
Stiles blinked. KISS wasn't a band on his iPod, which meant D knew them from memory. Stiles tried not to read too much into that, else he might cry. “Excuse you, that is age profiling, good sir, and I resent it.”  
  
“Uh huh.” D grinned into the skin of Stiles' thigh. "Whatever you say."  
  
“So, I know that this situation, like, demands that we have sex right now,” Stiles started, fingers tangling together. D didn't even fight to hide his snort. Stiles slapped him, blushing. “I'm being serious, here! So, like, I know we should be reveling in our last day together by consummating our love in a variety of positions and styles-- heh, no pun intended-- but I'd really like to go home and hang out. Is that okay?”  
  
D smiled softly as he stood. “Always. That reminds me, we have a book to finish.”  
  
“Yeah,” said Stiles, warming up to the idea. “A little H.P., some Doritos....”  
  
“Sounds perfect,” D agreed, pulling on his jeans. Because, in all honesty, D would like nothing more than to curl up with Stiles, eating salty snacks and listening to his mate's raspy tenor slide into Snape's deep baritone. Nothing at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have some good news and some bad news. The good news is that I have decided to finish writing this fic. I'd forgotten how cool it was (is that tooting my own horn? More importantly, do I care? No.), and I really want to see it through to the end. The bad news is that my pre-written chapters are drawing to a close, especially because I needed to rewrite a chapter because it was completely inappropriate, so the daily updates may end soon. I will try to work as quickly as possible, though! :)
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So now we're going to get into angst and you're going to see how terrible I am at writing conflict. Woooo. 
> 
> Un-beta'd.

They finished the rest of the book that night, D taking over when the sunlight grew too dim. He'd gotten a lot better at talking in the few days that Stiles had been a part of his life.   
  
It felt wrong, somehow, that they'd known each other for less than a week. D could swear that he grew up hearing Stiles' voice nagging at him at the back of his head. Maybe the kid's voice was that pervasive. Odd, how things can be annoying and endearing at the same time like that.  
  
But back to D's point-- was ADD transferable?-- Stiles had only been with D for four days, but it seemed like D's entire world had changed because of it: werewolves could change forms, D was conjugating his verbs and applying appropriate adjectives, he'd finally begun to accept his mistakes and regrets, and, most surprisingly, he'd begun to hope again.   
  
That was all going to change, though. Stiles was going home and, despite his promise, D was going to leave it at that. Stiles deserved a happy, normal, human life, and D was sure that he'd find it if he could keep himself away. And he could, because, if nothing else, D had a very strong willpower, honed after a moment of loss of control had ended his entire family. He could stay away from Stiles. He had to.  
  
And he knew that Stiles loved him, but he also knew that Stiles had loved before, and would again. Wolves mated for life, but humans didn't, and that was for the best. D saw only two options to their relationship: either he stayed away, or Stiles ended up with a Bite on his shoulder, howling at the moon every month and mourning the vague imprints of memory left on his mind. D couldn't bear the thought of that.   
  
D tugged a sleeping Stiles into his arms and waited for the morning to come. He didn't sleep a wink.   
  
He jostled Stiles awake an hour after the sun rose, moving quickly out of the bed once he heard Stiles' breathing pick up. While his mate was scrubbing his eyes blearily, D slid the Harry Potter books into his bag. He wouldn't be reading them anymore; maybe Stiles would find a good home for them. He took Stiles down to the woods to pee and ate breakfast with him, ignoring the dulled wail of impending grief lurking at the tip of his sternum. He couldn't face it. Not yet. Not in front of Stiles.  
  
The entire morning proceeded like a funeral march anyway, because Stiles had no such compunction to hide his sadness. “It's not forever,” he kept saying, more to himself than to D. “It's not forever.”  
  
D agreed with him quietly, grateful that human ears couldn't pick up on lies.  
  
They left the train car at high noon, D carrying Stiles' bag (minus a pair of boxers and plus six paperback books, but Stiles didn't need to know that). Black Widow and Wolverine met them at the bottom, and Scott joined shortly thereafter. Everyone wanted to say goodbye to Stiles. They tried valiantly not to cry, but it was Scott that ended up breaking down. “I love you, Stiles. Say hi to my mom for me.”  
  
“Sure, bud,” Stiles promised, though everyone knew it was empty. Stiles couldn't tell anyone about this. D and he had spent a chunk of the evening figuring out a cover story. A rogue werewolf had captured him to eat for later, but Stiles had managed to get one over on him after a while. He hid in the woods for days, following rivers and streams to hide his scent, and finally found his way home. D thought it was a cheap and dirty story, but Stiles had assured him that it would work.   
  
Stiles leaned into D's side, breaking through his reverie. Right, the goodbyes.  
  
“Thanks for teaching us how to be better people,” Black Widow joked weakly, punching Stiles in the arm. Wolverine nodded gravely in agreement.  
  
They followed D and Stiles all the way to the edge of the encampment, forming a protective barrier against the Weres that sniffed at Stiles hungrily, but from then on, it was just D and Stiles, trudging hand-in-hand through the wasteland of suburbia, chatting aimlessly to pass the time.  
  
“So, you've never seen snow?” D asked, crunching over the rusty ruins of a bicycle.   
  
“What?” said Stiles, surprised. “How did you know that?”  
  
“You told me, last time we were walking through here,” D said, trying not to sound wistful. If only he could have warned himself against falling in love with the boy draped across his back.  
  
Nah, he wouldn't have. Not for the world.  
  
“You mean when you caveman-ed me across miles of terrain?” Stiles corrected dryly. “I didn't really see where we were going.”  
  
“It's not all it's cracked up to be, snow,” D said, unruffled. “It's pretty in the sky, but it sucks once it's landed.”  
  
“But, but snowmen!” Stiles spluttered. “Snowmen and snow angels and icicles and snowball fights and hot cocoa and Christmas carols!”  
  
“Yeah, that lasts about a day,” D retorted. “And then it's just cold and dark a lot, and the snow turns to slush and gets your socks wet.”  
  
“You are such a sourpuss!” Stiles cried, shoving at D's shoulder ineffectually. “A sourpuss werewolf. A sourwolf, if you will. Next thing I know, you're gonna tell me that Santa was never real, and that werewolves didn't eat him when he was making his Christmas rounds!”  
  
D eyed him warily, unsure whether he was joking or not. Stiles didn't really think that Santa was real, did he?  
  
“Jesus Christ, I'm kidding, geez,” Stiles huffed, trying and failing to hide his grin. “I know Santa's not real. But you're still a sourwolf.”  
  
D could accept that, and he said as much. Stiles asked him more questions about life before the change, and D did his best to answer them. It was difficult, because he could remember how life was, but he couldn't remember his impression of it. It felt like looking through non-prescription glasses, and even _that_ simile was a half-understood idiom.  
  
Stiles eventually took pity on him and started explaining life in the community. It sounded to D like some sort of Viking village, all weapons and training and survival, but who was he to judge? He lived in a den of werewolves.  
  
Stiles told him about his best friend back home, some girl named Lydia with a massive brain and an even bigger propensity for sass. “Seriously,” Stiles said, grinning, “half of my personality is from her tutelage.”  
  
D wasn't sure if that made her more endearing or more hateful. Oh, who was he kidding? He'd send the girls flowers tomorrow, if he could.  
  
Stiles also told him about his father, the Sheriff of the community, and how awful it was to see him hardening as more and more people were lost to the werewolves. “It's not your fault,” Stiles added hurriedly, “it's just the way of things, now.”  
  
D felt guilty, anyway, but he did his best to hide it. It didn't matter how he felt, because Stiles was right: this was the way of life. Murder and mayhem and misery, oh my.  
  
Stiles told him about school, and how stupid it was that they still had macroeconomics when there was no economy to manage, and how cool some of their classes were.   
  
“Werewolf: Anatomy and Physiology is my favorite,” he confessed. He smirked then. “Although I have a thing or two to correct about the 'Sexual Studies' section.”  
  
D rolled his eyes. “Mature.”  
  
“I know, right?” Stiles agreed brightly, the devil child. “Oh, I bet Ms. Blake would _love_ you. She's, like, the only other person that finds you guys as fascinating as I do. And I mean that in, you know, the least prejudiced way possible. Awkward.”  
  
“No, I get it,” D replied. “To humans, we must be the Great Unknown. We're the closest thing to a manifestation of death that you can imagine. Why wouldn't you be fascinated?”  
  
“No, okay, could you make that sound any more horrible?” Stiles grimaced. “It's because you guys are, like, the link between biological and supernatural. A line of mountain ash dust can keep you away, which is weird and magical, but you're also very much alive. Your metabolism is crazy despite your lack of need to eat daily, you heal at unbelievable rates, and your senses are extraordinary. Jesus, 'sourwolf' is fucking apt for you.”  
  
“Fuck you,” said D without heat. “S'not my fault I forget how abnormal I am.”  
  
“Oh, shut up,” Stiles said, laughing. “You know that's not what I meant.”  
  
D allowed himself to smile. “Yeah, I know.” He hefted the bag from where it was slipping off his shoulder.  
  
“I don't know why you insisted on carrying my bag,” Stiles complained. “I'm not a weakling.”  
  
“Actually, you are, relatively,” D replied. “But you'll be gone soon, and I don't mind.”  
  
“My big strong boyfriend,” Stiles declared dramatically, clinging to D by the bicep. “Carrying my bag and defending my honor. Whatever will I do without him?”  
  
The joke fell flat. D smelled a burst of sadness come from Stiles, one that mirrored his own. Stiles would lead a normal life, that question was easy to answer. But what would D do without Stiles?  
  
They walked in silence for almost an hour. Well, Stiles was never completely silent. He was clapping his hands on his jeans or humming or _something_ , the hyperactive little shit. D was really going to miss him. Eventually, D started up conversation, desperate to salvage the situation from becoming too unbearable.   
  
“Dogs or cats?”  
  
“Hmm?” Stiles asked. “Oh, dogs. Definitely. They're, you know, nice. Cats would kill you just as soon as love you, and I don't like that.”  
  
“That's ironic,” D joked self-deprecatingly.  
  
“What?” Stiles scoffed. “No way. I trusted you, like, as soon as you didn't kill me in my sleep. Or, you know, any of those other brilliant opportunities you had to kill me.”  
  
D chuckled. “Alright, what breed, then?”  
  
Stiles glanced at him speculatively. “Guess.”  
  
They walked for a few minutes while D thought. That was a tough question. “Well, you're a frenetic person, so not a bulldog or a Basset. But I think something too energetic, like a Jack Russell, wouldn't be your style either. Too much energy. Nothing too small, because you'd want something to cuddle. Shiba Inu? Maybe a husky?”  
  
Stiles beamed at him. “I have no idea.”  
  
D threw him a look. “You were fucking with me, weren't you?”  
  
“Indeedy!” Stiles chirped. “But hey, the only dog I've ever met was some kind of mutt, so you could very well be right. Are Shiba Inus nice?”  
  
“I always thought so,” D replied. “They're… fluffy.”  
  
Stiles snorted. “Fluffy?”  
  
“Yeah. What, do I need to spell it for you?”  
  
“Fuck you, amigo.”  
  
“You wish.”  
  
“I _have_.”  
  
“Not yet, you haven't.”  
  
“Wait,” Stiles said, stopping dead in his tracks. “Wait, you can't... What? Seriously? You'd let me-- maybe I could go home tomorrow. Yeah, or, like, next week.”  
  
D smiled tightly at him. “Stiles, no. Clean breaks, and all that.”  
  
“This isn't a break, though. Not a break- _up_. Right?” Damn it, he sounded so hesitant. D dropped the bag and pulled Stiles tight to his chest, tucking his chin over the boy's shoulder.  
  
“Right.”  
  
Stiles relaxed, hugging D back just as hard. “Good.”  
  
They broke apart and continued walking. They continued to fill the air with chatter, carefully avoiding subjects that hit too close to their hearts, and pretended that this wasn't what they both knew it was: a good-bye.   
  
They stopped a block away from the front entrance of the community. “I wouldn't recommend going any closer,” Stiles said, pulling D by the elbow. “They'll see you.”  
  
D stood silently, unsure of what to say, and positive that nothing would make this any better.   
  
“So... how about those Mets?”  
  
Except for that. D smiled, spine straightening. “I'm going to miss you.”  
  
“Yeah.” Stiles shifted from foot to foot, then lurched forward and wrapped his arms around D's neck as tight as he could. “I love you,” he whispered fiercely, “so much.”  
  
D hugged him around the waist, careful not to squeeze too hard. “There are no words, Stiles.”  
  
“Yes, there is. One,” Stiles replied, pulling back a little. Shit, he was crying. “Mate. We're mates, pure and simple. You're mine just as much as I'm yours. We're in this together, forever, okay?”  
  
“Okay,” D croaked, heart dividing into what he _knew_ was the right thing to do, and what he _felt_ was the right thing to do. “Mates.”  
  
He kissed Stiles with everything he had, pushing the words he couldn't say into Stiles' mouth directly. _I love you and I know you'll hate me for a while, but this is what is right and I can only hope that you'll one day understand. God, I love you._  
  
Stiles sobbed into the kiss, lips turning desperate, because he was hearing the words left unsaid. Such a smart, clever boy.  
  
They pulled away, faces wet. “Okay. Clean break, right?”  Stiles said, smiling through his tears.   
  
D closed his eyes. “Right.”  
  
When he opened them again, Stiles was gone.  
  
The run back was one of the most difficult things D had ever done. It was like there was a string tied to his heart connecting him to Stiles, and each meter pulled that string tighter and tighter.   
  
By the time D got back to the encampment, he was a wreck. His entire body was shaking, and he whined constantly. Isaac, Black Widow, and Wolverine-- God, those were such _Stiles_ names, and it was horrible-- rushed to his aid, guiding him to a log.   
  
They whimpered sympathetically, curling around him as if to protect him. D barely noticed. All he think about was how stupid it was, that he should fall so hard so fast. Who let love be so easy? And who the fuck made it so hard?  
  
D had no idea how long he sat there, but the other werewolves had started guarding him in shifts. Maybe two days? Three? It didn't matter. Stiles was gone.  
  
Around day four or five, he finally got up the courage to go home. He barely made it up the scaffolding; the scent of Stiles was so strong, blended with his own, that D almost lost his hold on the metal bars. D forced himself to continue climbing until he could collapse onto the floor of the train car.  
  
He'd expected it to change, somehow. Some indicator that a lifetime had passed. But it hadn't, not really, and the car looked the same as always. Same crates stacked, full of bric-a-brac. Same pile of blankets, now reeking of cinnamon apples and love and sex and everything that was gone. Surrounded by Stiles, and yet utterly bereft of him, D finally allowed himself to fall asleep.  
  
He awoke to the smell of Stiles and, for a blissful second, believed that it was all some despicable nightmare. But when he opened his eyes, Stiles was gone, as he had been for almost a week now.   
  
D gave himself an hour to wallow, but then he stood up, refusing to become one of those werewolves that stank of grief and loss and barely moved. He couldn't let himself turn into that.  
  
He picked up the entire pile of blankets and jumped out of the train car, racing to the water to wash them out. He used the remainder of Stiles' soap and laid the blankets out to dry on the stones. He bathed himself, next, scrubbing efficiently at his skin until he no longer smelled of warm pies and sunflower seed oil. His lapse into happiness was long over, now.  
  
He waited for the blankets to dry, then folded them up and returned to the train car and remade his bed, picking a different blanket to place on top. D's home smelled a lot better, now that the blankets were clean. More manageable.  
  
He spent a week redoing everything in the car. Every crate was emptied, dusted, and restocked, though D made sure to rearrange everything. Nothing could be the same.  
  
Then the Hunger hit.  
  
Driven by a wall of hateful instinct, D leapt out of the car and followed a group of Weres into the city. Time to hunt. Every thought in D's mind was erased, leaving one, driving word: feed.  
  
They found a pile of humans, weary from travel and careless. The Weres feasted. D took down his victim, a young man with light skin and dark features, and tore into the boy's throat. He ripped away sinew and muscle, chewing with relish. _Food._  
  
He opened his mouth to take the next bite, but-- wait, no, that wasn't, it couldn't be-- oh, God, no.  
  
D leapt back, retching up the bite of meat he'd taken. Bile ran heavy in his throat, burning on the back of his tongue. After all this time, no.  
  
D took another, fearful look, and nearly wept in relief.  It wasn't Stiles. Thank everything holy.  
  
But the urge to feed didn't come back, because what if it _had_ been Stiles? This boy was his age, his size, his coloring. What if D had just killed his mate? Would he even have known the difference?  
  
D looked around at the other werewolves, watching them ravage a group of people. Is this what the humans saw? Mindless, heartless animals, decimating life without care? No wonder the humans feared them so much.  
  
D loped away from the scene, rubbing blood off his face. He stopped by the river to clean up and climbed into his train car before he'd realized: he'd broken through the Hunger.  
  
The Hunger _was_ breakable.  
  
There was hope for them all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! So I skipped a day. Yes. I have an explanation: this chapter is 1) short and 2) my least favorite, so I decided to post two chapters at once! And I would have posted them yesterday, but I was busy working on a scene in Chapter 13 that I know you'll love, so... cut me some slack and I love you all?
> 
> Un-beta'd.

Stiles was miserable. Life at home was miserable. Everything was miserable. If there were more Stileses, and they were French, they would be Les Miserables.  
  
He'd been home almost two months. Eight unfettered weeks of school, chores, and sympathetic gazes. He'd even been taken off the raid roster, Finstock gaining an ounce of sensitivity just in time to take away the one thing that would have salvaged this situation.   
  
Everyone had been walking on eggshells around him. When he'd showed up at the gates, eyes red-rimmed and sobbing, they'd barely even checked him over before sending him to the Sheriff.  
  
Seeing his dad had sent Stiles into a new wave of tears, and he clung to his old, threadbare police jacket like a lifeline. The Sheriff had broken down, too, clutching his son to his chest and abandoning work for the day. Slowly, carefully, he wheedled the story out of Stiles, who lied dutifully about getting lost in the woods. Stiles realized, belatedly, that he was clean and didn't look like he'd spent the last few days foraging for survival, but no one else seemed to notice.  
  
No one, that is, except Lydia.  
  
"Okay, talk," she had demanded, sitting Stiles down after a week of moping. "I want the truth."  
  
"You know the truth," Stiles objected, trying not to sound desperate.   
  
"No, I know the fiction you told the rest of the community," she replied, crossing her arms. "Don't take me for a fool, Stiles."  
  
"What gave it away?" he asked sheepishly.  
  
"You left the pharmacy without your bag. When you returned, you had it. If you were trying to escape the hold of a werewolf, you wouldn't have stopped back to pick up your belongings along the way. Not to mention the fact that you're clean as a whistle, well-fed, and moping like you left something to come home. Spill."  
  
"Jesus," Stiles had said, scrubbing his face. "I thought we got over this 'you amazing me' business years ago."  
  
"Yeah, yeah, stop changing the subject. I want the real story."  
  
So Stiles had told her everything, starting with the long trek to the werewolf encampment, and ending with his return home. He told her about seeing Scott, about the river, about reading Harry Potter and, blushingly, about the sex.  
  
"You sexed up a werewolf?" Lydia gasped, torn between indignation and delight. "You utter cad! I want details!"  
  
"Oh Lyds," Stiles sighed, smiling, "it was wonderful. He was wonderful. I expected him to be all take and no give, but he was sweet and just rough enough and sexy and God, Lyds, I miss him so much."  
  
"But he promised to come see you, right?"  
  
"Right. This isn't goodbye," Stiles confirmed, resolute.  
  
That was seven weeks ago. Seven weeks without so much as a message from D, let alone a visit. Stiles had made sure to mention the bank vault to him, which was left unsealed by the line of mountain ash and therefore would allow werewolves entrance. The community council had thought the vault unbreakable, and saved the precious mountain ash for dire situations. They hadn't counted on two boys with a knack for getting into trouble finding their way to the bank vault and, days later, through it.  
  
As long as D remembered about the bank vault and mentioned it to Scott, he'd gain access to the community easily. But, so far, nothing.   
  
It had really done a number on Stiles. Around week three, when he realized that maybe D had been lying to him about the visits, he had stopped eating crops. He took a daily food supplement, little pills that were chocked full of carbs, fats, and proteins enough to last you a day, but that was it. Food tasted like ash in his mouth, empty mouthfuls that hardened to lead in his stomach. He began to lose weight, clothes bagging where they used to fit, bones peeking out where lean muscle used to be. He didn't lose too much body mass-- he had always been thin, even at his healthiest-- but it was enough that people had started to notice.   
  
That's when everyone started treating him differently. When he first got home, everyone had been so surprised and happy to see him that they didn't bother to ask him how he was, emotionally. It took them weeks to realize he wasn't eating, and days more to decide that he had some sort of PTSD. The Sheriff had come to Stiles and promised that, if he wanted, he didn't have to go to school, nor did he have to do chores. "You're allowed to focus on you," he'd said sympathetically.  
  
But if Stiles didn't do anything he'd just wallow away in his room, even more pathetic than he was now. So he got himself out of bed every morning and went to school, then did his chores, then spent time with his friends. He was nowhere near a good enough actor to make everyone believe he was okay, but he was decent enough to convince them that he was trying. And for a post-apocalyptic community, that was good enough.  
  
What had surprised Stiles the most was the number of people that came to him about Danny. Stiles had always believed that the community disliked their relationship, like it was an affront to the concept of survival, but he was wrong. Nearly every person in Stiles' life had given him their condolences. He wished he could correct them, that it was another man, another love, that was causing him grief, but he knew better. He pretended it was Danny that he was missing, and accepted the pity as it came to him.  
  
Lydia was the only one who knew the truth, and Stiles thanked God for her. She was the only person that dragged his ass out of bed on Saturday mornings and shoved him into the bowling alley. She was the person that looked over his homework because she knew that he had trouble paying attention nowadays. And she was the one that sat him down and let him cry over how much he'd lost. She really was one hell of a friend.  
  
By week eight, Stiles was almost back to normal, at least on the outside. People stopped being careful about what they said around him, and they treated him like they used to, before the attack. He joked around with his friends, he ate cucumbers and radishes and tomatoes, and he tried his best to forget.  
  
But he was still hollow inside. A huge chunk of his life was missing, and Stiles had no control over how to fill it. He couldn't move on, not after everything. Every time someone called a werewolf "Wolf," Stiles wanted to correct them. When people cracked jokes about how feral werewolves were, Stiles wanted to slap them and remind them that werewolves were people, too, once. Everything humans did (and strange, how Stiles distanced himself from the term 'human,' like he couldn't bear to be associated with his own species) rubbed him the wrong way, from their cavalier attitudes about werewolves to their obnoxiously inflated senses of self. Humanity itched like a insect crawling under his skin, and all Stiles wanted to do was run away from it.  
  
He had been changed irrevocably, and it was damned stupid of D to believe otherwise.  
  
See, Stiles had figured it all out around week six. D was the self-sacrificing type, more willing to cut off his own leg than to purposefully harm anyone else, and he'd thought that, if he kept away, Stiles would find someone new. It was the only explanation for his abandonment.   
  
Stiles had had a moment of teenaged vulnerability, where he'd thought that maybe D was faking it the entire time. After all, D was an Adonis of a werewolf, physically superior in every way to Stiles. Perhaps Stiles just hadn't been enough.  
  
But a deeper part of Stiles knew that was a load of bullshit. He knew what he felt, and it was real. What they had was _real_. And that left only one conclusion: D was an altruistic jackass.  
  
Then Stiles got angry. Who was D to decide how their relationship would end? Who was he to make that call, all by himself? Stiles was an adult, damn it, and he could make his own decisions. D had no right abandoning him. What he did was selfish, ill-advised, and stupid. The bastard.  
  
Stiles scrubbed at the shirt in his hands viciously, imagining, not for the first time, that it was D's stupid, perfect face. His anger calmed to a simmer over time, a quietly ferocious bubbling that manifested itself when he let his mind wander. He still wasn't allowed to go on raids, but he was doing everything else around camp, including a mass of chores, and scrubbing out stains was an excellent way to express some of his ire. He finished the load of laundry and hung everything up to dry, trudging home with scaly hands and sore arms. This was his life now, and fuck all if it wasn't like death itself.

If only he knew what waited behind door number three.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reaaaallly dislike this chapter. Okay, moving on!


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Un-beta'd.

The eight weeks D was separated from Stiles weighed on him, each minute adding a pound of heaviness to his shoulders. The only thing that kept him going was the knowledge that, no matter how bad it felt, this was the right thing to do. "We all must face the choice between what is right and what is easy," Dumbledore once said. Wise words.  
  
So, instead of allowing his feelings for Stiles to make his decisions for him, D locked those feelings away and focussed on the other parts of his life.  
  
When he'd rejoined the encampment, two weeks of self-enforced exile later, he'd been shocked to see just as many human faces as werewolf ones.  
  
"Been teaching them," Isaac had informed him proudly. "Need emotional anchor to shift."  
  
"We're changing," Wolverine had said, tone unreadable.  
  
So, for the past six weeks, D had been helping train the werewolves. Not only did the population of werewolves respond well to the instructions, but they also began to have conversations aloud, practicing their speaking skills with one another late into the night. It seemed that, once they had the ability to regain their humanity, the Weres clung to it with a passion. Nowadays, the encampment was alive with discussions and laughter, and no one lurked sadly around train cars anymore.  
  
The Hunger was a different story completely. Like clockwork, a Hunger would hit and every Were would wolf out and form packs, charging into the city and surrounding areas with a single-mindedly intensity. Everyone but D, that is. The Hunger was difficult to control, especially when the moon was full, but D managed to keep a grasp of himself, and he hadn't killed anyone since that first boy.  
  
Issac, Black Widow, and Wolverine had been working on restraining themselves, as well, and during the last Hunger: they'd managed to tear into each other instead of a human. Isaac had almost died, but they were so proud of themselves that it hardly mattered.   
  
What did matter was that werewolves could fight the Hunger, if they tried hard enough. They didn't have to be the brainless savages that mutilated the human population, and that knowledge kept them hopeful. They, for the first time, had a choice. D often overheard quiet conversations about instincts and self-control, and, sometimes when the moon was dark and the stars bright, a strangled belief that, one day, werewolves could rejoin human society. It was enough to give any Were pause.  
  
Which was why D was currently sitting in his train car, wracked with nerves and jittery with anticipation. He'd had a conversation with his pack-- a term Isaac had thought up to describe himself, Black Widow, and Wolverine, and D-- and they'd decided that someone needed to reach out to the human population to start negotiating for peace. Someone on the inside.  
  
It could only be one person: Stiles.  
  
D swung out of the train car and took off for the forest, tracking Scott's scent to a glen half a mile from the river. Stiles had told him, once, about how he and Scott used to sneak out through the door of a bank vault that the adults hadn't bothered protecting. "They thought it was locked," Stiles explained smugly. "They didn't expect my cunning skills. I unlocked the vault door, and Scott and I had a way in and out of the community, and no one was the wiser." If D had any hope for getting into the community, it was through this door. He could only hope that no one had discovered it in the interim and blocked it with mountain ash.  
  
D found Scott hanging upside down from a large branch, red-faced and reading _One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest_. He avoided the encampment as much as he could because he had yet to master English, and he still hadn't learned to change his form.  
  
"Scott," D said, "I need your help."  
  
"No," Scott said shortly, dropping from his perch and twisting to land on his feet. He turned to walk away, but D grabbed his shoulder.  
  
"What? Why?"  
  
"You haven't visited Stiles," Scott stated, eyes cold. "You promised."  
  
D sighed, repeating the mantra that had pushed him through these last two weeks. "He deserves a clean break."  
  
"What?" Scott said lowly, reeking of fury. "Did Stiles never tell you about his mom?"  
  
D frowned. Funny, that was one person Stiles had never mentioned. "No."  
  
"She was a teacher. Went with a friend out of community, kissed Stiles and promised to come back."  
  
"She never did," D realized, a heavy pit of dread forming in his stomach. "Did she?"  
  
Scott shook his head. "Stiles didn't understand. I didn't either. Never learned about death. 'She promised to come back,' Stiles kept saying. 'She promised.'"  
  
"Fuck," D groaned, anger and grief and love warring inside his chest. Stiles was such a happy person; D had always been convinced that Stiles would get over his feelings for D and move on. He had no idea that Stiles had emotional scars like that, and D realized all too late how horrible he'd hurt his mate. It all made sense now, how desperate Stiles had acted when he made D swear to visit, how confident he'd been that D would come back. He hadn't been confident at all, he'd been terrified.   
  
"Yeah, you dick," Scott hissed, eyes sparking gold. "You fucked up."  
  
D didn't have a response for that. He sat down numbly, awash in emotions that he'd refused to feel for weeks. God, he missed Stiles. It felt like the sun had gone out of his solar system, planets revolving around a void that couldn't be filled.  
  
Scott must have scented D's feelings, because he took pity on the older wolf. "You didn't know."  
  
"Yeah, and someday that excuse will actually mean something," D scoffed sarcastically, digging his claws into the ground and tugging long lines into the soil. He 'didn't know' when he'd been Bitten, he 'didn't know' when he'd eaten Danny, he 'didn't know' when he fell in love with Stiles. His life was a broken record of horrible mistakes, and he had no way of cutting the track.  
  
They sat a short while in silence, listening to the quiet thrum of crickets and birds. It was almost peaceful, save for the torrents of sour, ashy emotion pouring out of D.  
  
"Why see me?" Scott asked finally.  
  
"Stiles mentioned a bank vault, once," D growled, angry at himself all over again for forgetting his mission. He could fuck up his personal life, but he had an entire village of werewolves depending on him. He needed to get his shit together, dammit.  
  
Scott wrinkled his brow, confused. "Wha--?" His face clouded over as memories, sweet and potent, unlocked themselves in his mind. It made no sense, how the Turn hid memories behind this sheer door that, at the slightest provocation, revealed themselves in full glory. How some memories, the ones that you don't think about, like how much you dislike country music, or whether or not you subscribed to astrology, lingered even after, leaving an impression of a life, while other memories, important ones, faded into seclusion.   
  
"The bank vault," Scott whispered, a revelation. "Of course. I can show."  
  
He stood up and dragged D to his feet, taking off immediately for the community. D raced after him, adrenaline and nerves pumping through his veins. This was it. He was going to see Stiles. This was happening.  
  
They ran in a wide arc around the front half of the border, skirting guards and armed vehicles carefully. Scott climbed over the rubble of a wall and made his way through the dilapidated bank, D hot on his heels. D could smell the fresh green of crops and the tangy musk of humanity, and it made his head spin. He missed human society more than he'd ever thought he would, even if he could only remember it through a hazy, not-quite-recollection of his human childhood.  
  
They crawled over a dusty countertop and approached the vault door. Scott stopped and turned to D, resolute but sad. "Go no further."  
  
"Right," D replied instantly, understanding. The humans would recognize him in there and take him and D down immediately, and the werewolves would never have a shot at redemption. D could see how desperately Scott wanted to sneak in and see his home. His mother was in there, too, if D remembered correctly. D's heart twisted in sympathy. He placed a heavy hand on Scott's shoulder. "See you later."  
  
Scott nodded and, shooting the vault door a wistful glance, took off into the city. D watched him go then faced the door, shoulders set. He shifted into his human form and opened the vault. Here went nothing.  
  
He walked through the vault door and closed it behind him. On the other side of the door was, anticlimactically, a safety deposit room, though one wall had collapsed in on itself just enough to squeeze through a hole near the top. D had to tear at the boxes a little to fit his bulk through, but he managed.   
  
The community hit him like a punch to the gut. He'd expected a vibrant, busy place, something that indicated that humanity had yet to give up on itself. But this? Never.  
  
Everything was gray, both literally and figuratively. The buildings were dirty with a mud that tracked onto the streets, which were barren save for a few people that walked purposefully, faces drawn. The clothes they wore were worn and faded, threadbare at spots. D thought back to Stiles' soft hoodie and dark jeans and wondered if maybe being the Sheriff's son came with a few perks.   
  
Speaking of, there was no time to linger. Especially since he was a shirtless man with dirtied feet, aimlessly strolling down a street that didn't ever see much strolling. He picked up his pace, surreptitiously sniffing for Stiles' scent.  
  
Unfortunately, he could smell it everywhere. In a community so small, everyone probably had to take part in everything, which meant that Stiles ended up leaving traces of himself everywhere. The scent strengthened, though, as D headed down an alleyway, and he followed it to a large house. He crept around to the back of the house, listening for heartbeats. No one was home. Perfect.  
  
He scaled the side of the house easily, pulling himself onto a small balcony and opening the unlocked door, surprised. Then he realized that people didn't need to fear getting robbed, because, honestly, what was there to steal? There was no social hierarchy, no '1%' lauding themselves over a broken population of destitute citizens. He walked into the room and shut the door behind himself.  
  
In a marvelous stroke of luck, he'd managed to sneak himself right into Stiles' room. D's knees went weak at the smell and, in the safety of solitude, he allowed himself to fall to a kneel. He gasped in the spicy-sweetness and felt it pour into the hole in his heart, lining it but not filling it completely. He didn't know for how long he stayed there, breathing in his mate and undoubtedly smudging his filth into the carpet, and he moved only when he heard the front door open, excited voices ringing through the empty house.  
  
"You know he likes her, you can see it in the way he leers at her like some sort of creep," a female voice stated disgustedly.  
  
"Jesus, Lyds, don't talk about it," Stiles replied, laughing, and suddenly D's world went narrow. _Stiles_. He seemed so abstract, back at the camp, a painful, dull sort of reminder of how often D fucked up his own life. But hearing him, smelling him, was a concrete thing, an inevitability that D wasn't sure if he feared or anticipated more. He squared his shoulders, listening to the two teenagers clomp up the stairs.   
  
"I mean, I'm sorry, but Mrs. McCall needs to do something about it," the female-- Lydia, D realized, Stiles' best friend-- insisted. "Finstock won't give up until he hears the word no, and she's being too nice about it."  
  
They were coming down the hallway now, and D fought the urge to dive out of sight. He was a fully-grown man (" _almost_ man," Stiles' voice teased from a conversation months ago) and he could do this.  
  
"You're right," Stiles sighed, and the doorknob turned. "I just don't think it's our--"  
  
He stopped, staring at D. D stared back, lost for words. He wanted to believe that Stiles looked exactly the same, but he'd be lying to himself. Stiles had lost weight, cheeks just slightly hollower than they'd used to be, and he looked tired. D's stomach clawed at itself; had he caused that? Had he stopped Stiles from eating? Had he really been so stupid?  
  
"Hi Stiles."  
  
"I'm just gonna go," Lydia said, breaking the silence. She turned to leave, but Stiles caught her wrist, eyes still stuck on D.  
  
"No, Lydia," he said, voice hard, "I think you should stay. Whatever he has to say, he can say in front of you."  
  
D tensed, because he honestly wasn't sure if he _could_ tell Stiles about the werewolves in front of someone else. Stiles, he could trust. He wasn't so sure about anyone else. "Hi," he repeated, wincing almost immediately afterwards. Not his best line ever.  
  
Stiles' jaw ticked. "Hi," he replied tersely. "Nice of you to finally drop by."  
  
D winced again, posture slumping. "I thought--"  
  
"Oh, I'm sure you thought," Stiles interrupted, eyes blazing. "I'm sure you spent a lot of time thinking, didn't you? Promising yourself that you were doing the right thing, telling yourself that the pain proved that it was worth it. Newsflash, asshole: pain is fucking _pain_ , okay? It hurts for a reason, and not some martyr-esque whiny bullshit, either. You fucking _lied_ to me, D, over and over again. And for what? What have you achieved, here? Please, tell me. I'm all ears." He cocked his head sharply, mocking.  
  
"I…" D replied helplessly, "you're right."  
  
Stiles barked out a harsh laugh at that. " _No_ , really? You think?"  
  
"Goddammit, Stiles, I'm trying," D snarled, eyes flashing. Lydia jumped, but Stiles didn't so much as flinch. "I don't know what to think, I don't know what to do. I've been trying to do right by you all along, and I keep fucking up, and I can't help it, okay? Is this want you want? For me to prostrate myself at your feet? Because here I am, Stiles, here I am, standing in your room, begging you to be patient with me because I have _no_ idea what the _fuck_ I'm doing."  
  
"You could start by being honest with me," Stiles roared, face flushing red. "Don't guilt-trip me into feeling sorry for you, not when you promised," his voice broke, and he slumped, "not when you promised to come back."  
  
"Stiles." D rushed forward, cinching his arms around his mate and tucking his nose into the hollow behind Stiles' ear, where he smelt the most like cinnamon. "Stiles, I am so sorry. I didn't think."  
  
"Damn straight you didn't," Stiles snapped brokenly, hugging D back fiercely. "You and that thick, stupid, wolf-sized brain of yours."  
  
D huffed a weak laugh, and Stiles hit him on the shoulder. "Shut up, I'm being angry at you."  
  
"Sorry," D said gruffly, happily, instincts elated to be holding his mate again. "Please, continue."  
  
"Fuck you, Sourwolf," Stiles mumbled. "Just because we're hugging doesn't mean you're forgiven. This is serious."  
  
"I know," D said somberly.   
  
"I hate to break in on this moment," Lydia said cautiously, "but could we do introductions? And maybe an explanation of how a werewolf breached our perimeter?"  
  
"Yeah," Stiles said, pulling away, face blotchy, to smile at her. "As long as we make it clear that the only perimeter this particular werewolf will be breaching is mine."   
  
"Jesus Christ, Stiles," D sighed, hiding his embarrassed face behind his palm. He swiped down over his features and attempted a smile. "Hi," he greeted, offering Lydia his hand, "D."  
  
"Lydia," the girl replied, shaking the proffered hand firmly. D's smile widened to a genuine one; he liked her. She was spunky. He could see why she and Stiles got along so well. "So you're the hunk of a werewolf that stole my best friend's heart, huh?" She turned a cutting eye on Stiles. "You didn't tell me he was a walking Abercrombie and Fitch model. Shame on you."  
  
"That's because you're the only one who know what that _means_ , Lyds," Stiles retorted. "And he didn't 'steal my heart,' it was a reciprocal trade-off." He glanced at D, unsure. "Right?"  
  
"Right," D confirmed, nodding.   
  
"Good," Stiles said, sounding faintly relieved. D wanted to punch something; Stiles' doubt was D's fault, just like the rest of this mess. "So, I take it you found the vault?"  
  
"Scott led me straight to it."  
  
"I still cannot believe that Scott McCall is a werewolf," Lydia said, shaking her head. "Scotty McCall? The asthmatic kid with a massive fear of heights? No way."  
  
"Scott had a fear of heights?" D asked, amused. "He lives in treetops nowadays."  
  
"Wonders never cease," she replied, grinning. D laughed.  
  
"Why didn't he come?" Stiles asked. "I figured he'd like to see his home."  
  
D opened his mouth to speak, but Lydia beat him to it. "Don't be an idiot, Stilinski. If Scott wandered in here, he'd be dead in seconds."  
  
"Sometimes I wonder who the real monsters in this world are," Stiles spat to himself. D shifted on his feet, suddenly feeling too big for his skin. He knew who the monsters were, and they weren't these people, fending for their lives.   
  
"That's actually why I'm here," D confessed, wincing when he smelled a bolt of shocked sadness come from Stiles. Stiles had assumed D was here to see him, of course he did, and D wished with all his heart he could fulfill that assumption. But responsibility prevailed. "The werewolves are changing."  
  
"Obviously," Lydia replied, blinking. "Look at you, I would've thought you were human if I didn't know better."  
  
"Well, I'm not the only one," D said. "I've been working with the other werewolves for the past six weeks, and most of them can shift in and out of human form. They're also starting to talk more. You'd be amazed if you could see them, Stiles."  
  
"So that's what you've been doing," Stiles said, like it was a revelation.  
  
"What did you think I would be doing?" D asked, genuinely curious.  
  
"I don't know, whatever you normally do," Stiles said, shrugging. "Lurking, brooding, reading comics. Sometimes I wondered if you died, other times I imagined you missing me as much as I missed you. Sometimes I wished you _had_ died, so there was a reason you never came back. Sometimes I thought you'd just moved on."  
  
D clenched his jaw, shame roiling thickly in his gut. "There's more," he said, swallowing past his guilt. "Werewolves can fight the Hunger."  
  
"What?" Stiles demanded, eyes wide. "Are you serious?"  
  
"It's hard, but possible," D replied. "It's like having a very persistent itch that you can't scratch, all over your body. I'm the only one that has mastered it fully, so far. The pack-- that's Black Widow, Wolverine, and Isaac-- have to attack each other, instead. It's still progress, though."  
  
"I'll say," Lydia agreed. "The Hunger is why you attack humans, right? Stiles kind of caught me up on all of this. The way I understand it, it's an overwhelming instinctual urge, like flinching away from a threat, right? It must require immense control."  
  
"Like I said, hard."  
  
"Right," she continued, flapping a distracted hand at him. "That's not the point. If you, as a population, can control this instinct, then you pose no obvious threat to the community. Well, you're still superhuman and very distinctly dangerous, but  that can be managed."  
  
"Oh my God," Stiles breathed. "You do realize that this is, like, a possible end to the apocalypse, don't you? Like, that is legitimately what we're discussing. The End of Times is no longer nigh, rein in the Horsemen and call off the angels. We're talking about the actual salvation of humanity."  
  
"Well, that's a bit dramatic," Lydia said. "We have no idea how far the virus actually spread. It's very likely that some countries survived relatively unscathed."  
  
"Fuck you and your semantics," Stiles huffed. "You get my point."  
  
"One problem," D spoke up. "How do we convince the Sheriff?"  
  
"How much time do you have before you have to get back?" Stiles asked, narrowing his eyes.  
  
D shrugged. He hadn't really set up a timeframe. "A few days?"  
  
"Right," Stiles said, running his fingers through his hair. It'd grown longer, D noticed, tufting up around his head instead of shorn close. D liked it. "We need to work through some logistics. If we're going to confront my dad, we need to be as prepared as possible. Estimated rehabilitation time for the humans, conditioning the werewolves to rejoin human society, all of it. The more concretely we can answer his questions, the better chance we have of convincing him to be open-minded."  
  
"And we can do that in the morning," Lydia said, smoothing down her shirt decisively.  
  
"No," Stiles said, frowning at her. "We should be planning this now."  
  
"No," she returned, "I am not about to watch you sweep your feelings under the rug again. You two need to talk." She jabbed a finger at D. "You need to apologize. A lot. And you," she turned to Stiles, "need to get all that baggage off your chest before it kills you completely. If we're going to take a stand against the community, we need to have a united front, and we won't have that as long as there's drama between you two. So I am going to leave, and you are going to work this out. Okay?"  
  
Without waiting for an answer, Lydia spun on her heel and flounced out of the room, leaving Stiles and D staring at each other with something akin to dread.  
  
"Maybe you should start," Stiles said weakly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I find it funny that I wrote this before the drama with A&F started, and now they've dug themselves into such a deep grave that it's entirely likely that Lydia would be the only one to have ever heard of them. Am I psychic, or am I psychic? :D
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, lovelies! This chapter is NSFW, so tread with a complete lack of caution because when has smut stopped any of us?
> 
> Un-beta'd.

"I'm not sure how," D confessed, rubbing the side of his thumb against his palm. "I don't think I can make this better."  
  
"You could try," Stiles suggested, sounding irritated. "I really think you should at least make an attempt to explain all of this to me."  
  
D paced around the room, feeling hopelessly exposed. "I'm not good for you."  
  
"Like fuck you're not," Stiles shot back. "Try again."  
  
D huffed a sigh, turning to face his mate. "I'm not, Stiles. Love doesn't just magically protect people from everything, and my connection with you has put you in direct danger. We were incredibly lucky that none of the other Weres caught your scent. We may only attack when the Hunger strikes, but we know better than to ignore an enemy in our territory, and that's what you were, to everyone else: an enemy. I couldn't just take that risk. And I'm in the same position by being here. Our worlds clash, Stiles, and we're stuck in the middle. It's not safe."  
  
"That's not good enough," Stiles exclaimed. "You promised me something that you had no intention of doing. You couldn't trust me enough to tell me the truth, D. You lied to me, and even if it was to protect me, that's shitty. You don't lie to the person you love."  
  
"You say that like I had another choice," D said. "If I'd told you that I was saying good-bye for good, you wouldn't have gone home. You're stubborn, Stiles, sometimes too much for your own good. I knew I couldn't stay with you, and I knew you would never let me leave if I told you the truth. I did what I thought was best."  
  
"Best for me?" Stiles snorted. "No, D. You did what was easiest."  
  
"Fuck no," D growled. "No part of this was easy, Stiles. Easy would have been giving you the Bite. Easy would have been killing you in that pharmacy."  
  
"Oh, fuck you," Stiles replied, crossing his arms. "You're manipulating my words. You should have told me the truth, even if I did fight you. You should have given me that much credit."  
  
"Do you remember that conversation we had with Scott, about werewolf relationships?" D asked. Stiles nodded his head, thrown off guard. "We mate for life, do you remember that? Stiles, for me, you're it. You're my mate. I will never love any other person as deeply and totally as I love you. No one's scent will work with mine the way yours does. It's a part of my life.  
  
"But that doesn't mean it's a part of yours. You're human, Stiles. You aren't bound by instincts the way I am. So yes, I made an executive decision about your future: I made sure you had one. I didn't know all the Weres would be able to change and even then I didn't know progress would happen so quickly. You were in constant danger and I couldn't have that. I still can't. If I put you in danger, I am violating the most basic part of my bond to you, and I wouldn't be able to live with myself if you got hurt because of me. I made sure you were safe, and I will never regret that."  
  
Stiles gaped at him, flummoxed, and D felt a little proud of that. Because he'd rationalized and parsed and questioned his decisions for the past two months, and he'd be damned if Stiles was just going to walk all over that with self-righteous indignation. Someone had to be strong and realistic, and he bore that burden with ease.  
  
"That said," D continued, when Stiles continued to stare at him wordlessly, "I missed you. A lot. It felt like I left half of myself behind when I dropped you off eight weeks ago, and I never want to feel that way again. I can't promise much, because I have a feeling our entire world is going to change after our meeting with your father tomorrow, but I swear on my life that I will not leave you again. They'll have to drag my corpse away. You are my everything, Stiles, and I will cling to you for as long as you'll have me."  
  
Stiles swallowed, his throat clicking loudly. "I know I should have a big speech for you, or I should be crying, or something, but God I just really want to fuck you now."  
  
D grinned, all teeth. "I think we can manage that." He stalked over to Stiles and scooped him into his arms, burying his nose into Stiles collarbone.   
  
"Not, you know, _exactly_ what I had in mind," Stiles quipped, radiating sunflower seed oil and cinnamon apples. D nudged his teeth against Stiles' neck and bit down, licking the skin trapped between his teeth. Stiles gasped. "But, hey, you know, whatever."  
  
D chuckled, nosing up Stiles' neck until their lips met. Stiles' tongue immediately swept into D's mouth and D sucked on it, relearning Stiles' taste all over again. Stiles groaned, threading his arms around D's neck and tangling his finger's in D's hair, angling his head for a deeper kiss. D curled completely around Stiles, desperate for more, sliding his hot hands under Stiles' shirt and dragging blunt nails down his back.  
  
"Fuuuuck," Stiles groaned, pressing his hips into D's. D grinned into the kiss and dropped his hands to Stiles' waist, grinding up into Stiles _hard_. "Shit, D, we need to be naked. Now." Stiles pulled away and attempted to pull off both his hoodie and t-shirt at once, getting caught with a mess of fabric around his head. "A little help, please?"  
  
God, how D had missed this boy. He laughed and helped pull off the hoodie, then the t-shirt. "How have you survived this long?"   
  
"I have an excellent support system," Stiles replied, immediately falling back into D's arms. "See? You're supporting me."  
  
"Not much to support," D said, frowning down at where Stiles' ribs were visible through his skin. “Are you not eating?”  
  
Stiles froze, looking vaguely guilty. “I haven't been starving myself, if that's what you mean.” A non-answer. D rested his head on Stiles' shoulder, fresh, hot anger rolling underneath his skin. Stiles stopped eating because of _him_.  
  
“That's not what I asked and you know it.”  
  
“Ugh, okay, fine,” Stiles sighed. “I went a little easy on the actual food, okay? But I took supplements, and they provide you with all the nutrients you need. So, like, no big deal.”  
  
“Yes big deal,” D growled, poking at the delicate skin wrapped tightly around bone. “Obviously they weren't doing their job, Stiles. Look at all the weight you lost; do you honestly think those supplements took care of you? Your body ate at itself to survive!”  
  
“You know what? Fuck you,” Stiles hissed, pulling away from D fully. “You left me alone here, and I get why, and I get that you were trying to do the right thing, but you have _no_ fucking right to come here after all this time and go Mother Hen on me afterwards. You made your choice, and I made mine. So you can either accept the person you helped to create, or you can fuck off back to your tea party of werewolves and leave me in peace.”  
  
D hung his head. He kept fucking this up. “Shit, Stiles. I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry. Of course I accept you. I just hate that I caused this for you. You deserve so much more.”  
  
“Hey,” Stiles said, crowding into D's space and ducking until he could look D in the eye. “I'm sorry, too. That was unfair of me to say. You guys are way too badass to be having a tea party. Like, a kegger, at the very least.” D smiled despite himself, and Stiles beamed in reply. “I stopped eating when I realized you weren't going to come back. It lasted only two weeks, but it was enough to make me a little knobby. I'm getting better, okay?”  
  
Which meant he'd been even thinner than this, at some point. D closed his eyes and reigned in his self-loathing. “Yeah, okay. Just... never stop eating again. I mean it, Stiles.”  
  
“Duh,” Stiles replied, butting his forehead gently against D's. “I've got werewolf stamina to keep up with now. I'm gonna need all the calories I can get.”  
  
The joke was meant to be light-hearted, but it struck something deep in D that had him bundling Stiles as tightly into his arms as he could without breaking bones that felt far too delicate. Stiles hugged him back just as hard; D was pleased to find that, though thin, Stiles had definitely not grown _too_ delicate.   
  
They stood like that for what felt like an eternity, but was probably only a few minutes. The hug said more than words ever could: 'I'm sorry,' 'I forgive you, 'I missed you,' and, most prominently, 'I love you.'   
  
Stiles pulled out of the hug first, eyelashes damp but cheeks dry. “Well, now that that's out of the way, I'm going to make an executive decision of my own and say that you need a shower. You tracked dirt all over my room.”  
  
D eyed his handiwork guiltily. “Sorry.”  
  
“No big.” Stiles shrugged. “I do it all the time. But I'll be damned if you're getting in my bed with those feet, so come on, get clean.”  
  
D dutifully followed Stiles down the hall and into a small bathroom. He marveled at all the contraptions. He'd almost forgotten toilets existed, let alone sinks and showers. Technology really was a beautiful thing.   
  
“Alright, so the shower should run pretty well but move fast, because we barely have enough hot water on a good day, and cold showers are truly awful.”  
  
D nodded seriously, but he wasn't even sure what a shower was. Didn't you just fill the tub with water? Why did he need to move quickly?  
  
“Um, towels are here,” Stiles said, reaching into a cabinet and pulling out a dark blue towel, “and yeah. You're welcome to whatever. I'll be in my room finding you something to wear.” Stiles stood in the doorway, looking awkward, so D unbuttoned his jeans and shoved them down his legs, frowning when they crinkled, dirty. Stiles cleared his throat loudly and left the room, mumbling something about 'hot like burning.' D chose to take that as a compliment.  
  
He faced the shower with trepidation. He stepped into the tub, bending over to look at the shiny silver knobs on one end. One was banded with blue, the other with red, and D inferred that this meant that the taps produced cold and hot water, respectively. Judging from what Stiles said, D should use the hot water. Right. Seemed simple enough.   
  
D turned the red knob and roared as an icy torrent of water poured down his exposed back. He ducked out of the spray, glaring at the shower head accusingly. The water was supposed to be hot, dammit! He turned the blue knob, too, but the water didn't change temperature. He flicked it back off with a growl and resigned himself to a freezing cold washing experience.   
  
He walked quickly through the spray toward the bottles at the far end of the tub. One smelled slightly like Stiles, so he picked it up and squeezed shampoo into his hand. He scrubbed through his hair and over his body, working briskly to counteract the cold.  
  
Which, huh, wasn’t that cold anymore. In fact, it was warming up rather nicely. D backed into the spray slowly, smiling when he discovered that the water had actually become quite pleasant. He scrubbed the dirt from his feet and scratched shampoo through his beard, frowning when the water ran brown. When had he last bathed? Had it been that long ago?  
  
D rinsed off his chin, wincing when the water felt a little _too_ warm. Actually, make that very too warm. The water coming out of the shower now was steaming hot and hit D's skin like fire itself. He snarled and turned the hot water off, dripping angrily at the faucet of the bath. Fuck this technology. At least he was clean.  
  
He stepped out of the tub and grabbed the towel, drying himself as thoroughly as he could. He wrapped the towel around his waist (that, at least, he remembered from his childhood) and walked back to Stiles' bedroom.  
  
Stiles lay sprawled on his bed, grinning at D. “That shower sounded like quite the adventure.”  
  
“Shut up,” D grumbled defensively. A pile of clothes lay next to Stiles on the bed, and D dropped his towel to put them on.  
  
“Now there's a sight for sore eyes,” Stiles said appreciatively, sitting up. “Damn, you're more perfect than I remembered. I hate you a little bit for it.”  
  
D snorted, pulling on the sweats Stiles had lent him. “You shouldn't.”  
  
“Oh, don't worry,” Stiles said. “The lust definitely beats out the hate. Like ten to one. At least." The scent of arousal that hit D was staggering. It caused his dick to fatten up a little in his sweats, interested but not entirely convinced to full hardness. D knelt on the bed, shifting up so that Stiles' thighs were bracketed between his own. This time, their kiss was languid and easy, a reaffirmation of everything that had led up to this point. Stiles rested his hands on D's hips, rubbing smooth circles into D's hipbones with his thumbs.  
  
D rocked back, feeling Stiles' erection bump against the curve of his ass, and grinned. "I missed this."  
  
"Are you kidding?" Stiles groaned, throwing his head back as he arched up into D. "I jerked off so much the first week, I was pretty sure my dick was going to fall off. Legitimately."   
  
D imagined Stiles spread out on the bed, stroking his cock to the point of chafing, moaning in oversensitivity as well as release. He growled loudly, bending to suck a hickey onto Stiles' neck. "I'm going to fuck you so hard, Stiles. God, missed you so much."  
  
The next few minutes were a tangle of limbs and clothes, but soon enough they were naked and pressed together, and it felt like heaven. D wrapped a hand around Stiles' dick, stroking once. Stiles gasped loudly and gripped D's wrist tight. "Um, yeah, if we want this to last at all, you're gonna want to not to that. It's been a while."  
  
D removed his hand, frowning. "But you just said…."  
  
"Yeah, that first week," Stiles said, reacquainting himself with the lines of D's abs to avoid eye contact. "Since then? It's been kind of… not like that. At all."  
  
D sucked in a breath, feeling horrible all over again. Was this an exercise in learning how badly he'd fucked up?  
  
"Hey, none of that," Stiles admonished. "Come on, I thought I was about to get laid." He nudged D's arm, looking hopeful. "You can make it up to me by giving me the best sex of my life, how's that sound?"  
  
D pressed his cock up into the vee of Stiles' legs. "We can do that." He pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the flat of Stiles' sternum. "Lube?"  
  
It was Stiles' turn to suck in a breath. "Fuck, this is really happening. Uh, second drawer, nightstand." D reached up over Stiles' head and rustled around in the nightstand to find the bottle. Stiles took the opportunity to lick at D's chest and bite harshly at his nipples. D groaned, grabbing the lube and resituating himself between Stiles' thighs. "Actually," Stiles said, taking the bottle from D's grasp, "let me. Want you to watch."  
  
D could definitely get behind that plan. He slid down Stiles' body until he was crouched between his legs. Stiles poured lube on his fingers and dropped one hand past his balls, to his hole. D watched as Stiles circled the ring of muscle once before pushing in slowly. D stared, transfixed, as Stiles slowly began thrusting one finger into himself, breath ragged. One finger became two, and soon Stiles was scissoring himself open, moaning loudly. D, without realizing it, had shifted closer, itching to see the firm press of Stiles' fingers into his own body. "Can I?" he asked, rubbing the line where Stiles' leg met his body.  
  
"Fuck yes," Stiles groaned, pulling his fingers out with a wet sound. D thumbed his rim, fascinated by the way Stiles seemed to suck the digit into his body. The bottle of lube hit his shoulder and landed somewhere in the blankets. "Wet it and get it, compadre."  
  
And that was about the worst line D had ever heard, but his hands were already fumbling with the bottle, slathering his fingers with lube. He rubbed against Stiles' rim, working one finger inside almost by accident. Stiles clenched around it, all blistering heat and satin softness, and D needed to be inside him _now_.   
  
D slid a second finger in with the next thrust, biting his lip at how Stiles stretched around him tightly. Stiles jerked, grinding down into the intrusion. "Fuck, yes, feels so good."  
  
D couldn't help but drop his head to lick at where his fingers were working. It was hard to taste Stiles under the chemical tang of lube, but D persisted anyway, spreading his fingers and spearing his tongue between them.   
  
"Fuck, are you--?" Stiles shifted up so he could see what D was doing. "Oh, shit D," he moaned, dropping back down heavily, "I'm not gonna survive this." D laughed, twisting his finger in deeper and hitting something that made Stiles arch up off the bed. "Oh, right there, D, God, right there."  
  
From that point on, D aimed all of his thrusts at that spot, especially when he slid in a third finger. Stiles became a shivery, sweaty mess above him, oversensitized and still desperate for more. D thought he looked beautiful.   
  
Not as beautiful, though, as he looked while D was finally pressing into him, slow inch by slow inch. Stiles was a steady scorch of heat on his dick, hips circling just enough to encourage D to move in further. By the time he bottomed out they were both breathless, hearts pounding. It felt monumental for D to press his hips against the curve of Stiles' ass, to feel with his own body how much Stiles had consumed him, inside and out. D had lived in agony for so long, fighting the bond his emotions, punishing himself for merely existing, that it seemed impossible that he could have such indescribable happiness with someone else for once.  
  
“D,” Stiles said, voice like gravel, “I'm ready. You can move.”  
  
D shuddered as he withdrew, then slowly slid back in. Stiles pushed his hips up, clenching his inner muscles, and D worried momentarily if it was possible to actually die from sex, because Stiles felt like actual Heaven around him. He built a slow, easy rhythm of thrusts, gripping Stiles' hips lightly and checking, every few seconds, to make sure Stiles' grimace was still that of pleasure, not pain.  
  
“D, I love you,” Stiles panted, wriggling under D's hold, “but if you don't actually fuck me like you mean it, I will kick you out of my bed and make you sleep on the floor. Seriously. I won't break. Much.”  
  
“Stiles,” D groaned, jerking uncontrollably once, “I would wreck you.”  
  
“Fuck, what do you think I want?” Stiles demanded, locking his ankles around D's back to pull himself up onto D more. “I want you to mark me up, bruise me and bite me and fill me up with come and make me beg for it, D. Make me _feel_ it.”   
  
D snarled, shifting into his wolfier form without thought. His claws tore into the sheets when he planted them next to Stiles' head, providing a resistance for when Stiles' shoulders, along with the rest of his body, shoved up the bed with D's now forceful thrusts. Stiles reached up his hands and wrapped them around D's forearms, beaming up at D around broken moans. “See?” he panted. “Perfect.”  
  
D dropped to his elbows, mustering up just enough focus to shift into his human form before biting into Stiles' mouth. It made his thrusts shallower, but the slick press of Stiles' dick working between them more than made up for it. At least, Stiles seemed to think so.   
  
“Shit, yes,” he whispered, working his hips almost lazily under D's. “You gotta let me come, D, fuck, I'm so close. I just need....”  
  
His permission. Stiles needed his permission. D was overwhelmed with how good his mate was, how submissive, bare underneath him and begging for release. Demanding and patient, pushy and generous, and all his. How did D get so lucky?  
  
“Come for me, Stiles,” he ground out, thirty seconds from coming himself. “Wanna feel you.” With a cry, Stiles arched up, clenching hard around D as he came. Half a dozen thrusts later, D followed, baring his teeth against Stiles' throat.   
  
It took five minutes for either of them to move, but eventually D summoned up the motivation to roll off Stiles, curling up against his side instead. Stiles sighed and almost instantly mewled. “Dude, I'm a mess.”  
  
D shuffled down the bed until he was face to face with Stiles' dripping, swollen hole. The scent alone was enough to drive D wild, Stiles and him and sunflower seed oil all mixed up together in the purest way possible. But this, the sight of his seed spilling out of Stiles, bred so deep and so fully, was intoxicating. His hand moved of its own accord, one finger tracing up the line of come and pushing it back into Stiles, where it belonged. D sucked the finger into his mouth, burning with a need to delve into Stiles and _taste_.  
  
"Dude, come on," Stiles moaned, stopping D in his tracks. "I mean, I'm fully on board with whatever it is you're doing down there, but I, like, _just_ came. Give me a minute. Or ten."  
  
D could do that. He kissed Stiles' hipbone and crawled up the bed, collapsing next to Stiles. "I love you."  
  
Stiles turned his head and smiled, all rosy lips and honeyed eyes. "Love you too. Excellent fucking, by the way. Ten out of ten, would repeat."  
  
D laughed, grabbing Stiles' hand and kissing the back of it. "No complaints here. Did I mention that werewolves have almost no refractory period? Part of the healing thing."  
  
"Is that so?" Stiles asked, smirking. "Well, werewolf, meet eighteen-year-old boy. Challenge accepted."  
  
"Oh, it's going down," D replied.  
  
"Yeah, you will be," Stiles returned. "So will I, if I get my way."  
  
He slithered down the bed, and D wondered how on Earth he managed to fall in love with the worst punmaker he'd ever met.   
  
_Oh, yeah_ , he thought, as Stiles sucked him all the way down to his base. _That's how_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Upside: the angst is over! Thank God. More upside: we're getting into some heavy duty plot, and we finally meet the Sheriff.
> 
> There is no downside. This is fanfiction, and I'm a self-indulgent jerk.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another short one, I'm afraid, but the next chapter is long enough for them both! 
> 
> Un-beta'd.

Stiles and D woke to the sound of someone moving around downstairs.  
  
"It's just me," Lydia called up. "I'm making breakfast."  
  
Stiles rolled on top of D, radiating heat and happiness. "Good morning."  
  
"Good morning," D replied, feeling just as sunny as Stiles looked. "How are you feeling?"  
  
"Amazing," he sighed. "And sore. The sore adds to the amazing. The amazing is an umbrella term, and the sore falls under it."  
  
"Yeah, I get it," D said softly. He didn't realize he'd miss Stiles' rambling chatter as much as he did, and he told Stiles as much. If anything, it made the boy even happier.  
  
"I never thought I'd miss your werewolf face," he said, rubbing the smooth line of D's brow thoughtfully. "Can you shift for me, please?" Confused, D changed, feeling the slide of fangs and claws press out of his body. "There you are," Stiles said, reeking of satisfaction. "My beautiful creature of the night. God, how was I ever scared of you?"  
  
"Pretty sure it had something to do with an apocalypse," D suggested, grinning when Stiles slapped him on the chest. "Speaking of, we should get up. We have a lot of work to do."  
  
"Ugh, we're at the married phase of our relationship already," Stiles groaned mock-seriously. "Next thing you know you'll be telling me to take the kids to daycare while you bring home the bacon. I will not be a housewife, I put my foot down now.  
  
But D was too stuck on the middle part of that statement. He knew, logically, that Stiles carrying children was impossible, and bringing kids into an unstable climate such as theirs was the worst of ideas, but the mental image of Stiles swollen with D's pups was, well.  
  
"Hey, no," Stiles said, shaking a finger at him. "No getting hard, we have stuff to do. You said so yourself."  
  
"We also have to shower," D remarked, rubbing suggestively around one of Stiles' nipples. "Unless you want to meet your dad covered in my come."  
  
"God, you are seriously not allowed to mention my father in an otherwise really sexy sentence," Stiles complained. "Jesus. Sexytime whiplash, much?"  
  
"My bad," D said unapologetically. "Let's go."  
  
He almost felt guilty about the volume of bruises on Stiles' hips, had Stiles himself not examined them in a mirror and proclaimed them as "the hottest things ever." D put up a token protest but, if he was being painfully honest, Stiles looked good marked up.  
  
One very (very) long shower later, they joined Lydia in the kitchen. "Ugh, you disgust me," she sniped, rolling her eyes at them. "You're lucky I love you. Have some cold pancakes."  
  
Stiles smiled at her beatifically. "Have I ever mentioned that you're my favorite human? Because you are."  
  
"Yeah, yeah," she replied, smiling ruefully. "And how are you this morning, D? Everything worked out?"  
  
D nodded, shoving an entire pancake into his mouth at once. He was really hungry, he realized. He hadn't felt real hunger in years. "Thanks for the food."  
  
"You're welcome," Lydia said. "So, what's the plan?"  
  
"Don't have one yet," Stiles shrugged. "Figured we would do that this morning."  
  
"Where's your father?" D asked, realizing abruptly that he was currently camped out in the dining room of the leader of enemy forces.  
  
"Probably the tents," Stiles said, tensing, "leaning over maps and diagrams like he can strategize his way out of annihilation."  
  
Lydia shot him a glance, and then smiled hesitantly at D. "The Sheriff spends a lot of time working. It's not uncommon for him to be out of the house for a few days."  
  
"It makes sense, I suppose," D said, attempting to be diplomatic. Stiles obviously had a problem with his father's obsession with fighting werewolves, but D knew he couldn't criticize the Sheriff, not when the future of his own people depended on it. "He has a community of citizens to protect. I can understand the need for zeal."  
  
"No, it doesn't make sense," Stiles bit out, eyes flashing dangerously. "Although, heh, I suppose you would take his side. You're the sheriff of your own community, now, aren't you? Protecting your people, sacrificing everything for some greater cause. Funny, how I was abandoned by both of you. Stiles Stilinski: the Great Collateral."  
  
"Stiles, you know that's not what I meant. I thought we went over this," D protested, taken aback.  
  
"I know," Stiles said quietly. "I know, D. It's just… you have no idea how liberating it was, that week with you. There were no duties, no big agendas, no master schemes. There was me, and you, and Harry Potter, and nothing else."  
  
"Oh, have you read any more of the books?" D said, blown off-track.  
  
"I'm halfway through book five," Stiles said, beaming. "Umbridge is an evil whore. But, no, there's a point, don't distract me. For one week, I wasn't reminded of how the world was collapsing and humanity was fading with a whimper. I was a normal eighteen-year-old, falling in love with the dangerous older man. But now you've been dragged into all of this. You've been tarnished, too."  
  
"Stiles, that's not fair," Lydia retorted. "I understand it feels that way-- believe me, I do-- but you know D is actually working to end all of this. If we're successful, we will never have to see another battle plan again. D is fighting the good fight, here. You must realize that."  
  
"Jesus, Lyds, you're supposed to be _my_ best friend, here," Stiles sighed, smiling dolefully. "Alright, alright, I'll stop moping. Geez. So, what do we do?"  
  
"I was kind of hoping you would be able to help with that," D said, interlocking his fingers on top of the table, all business. "I doubt he would listen to me, no matter what. I think you might need to be the one to talk to him."  
  
"Are you kidding? He listens to me like he listens to the radio, and the radios stopped working seven years ago," Stiles protested. "There's no way I'll be able to convince him to drop his guns."  
  
"If you can't get through to him, who can?"  
  
"It would be difficult," Lydia admitted. "He's pretty determined."  
  
"Why?" D asked, curious. "What happened?"  
  
Lydia and Stiles had a silent conversation, and Stiles sighed heavily. "It's a long story. My m-mom, she was a werewolf supporter. She believed that the human wasn't gone completely, inside."  
  
"There were werewolf supporters?" D tried not to gape.  
  
Stiles shot him a sad, soft smile. "Yeah, 'were' being the operative word. Mom convinced Dad to take in a werewolf, a girl my age, around seven or eight. The girl was blonde, I remember that. We called her Anna. Everything was great for the first week, but then--"  
  
"The Hunger hit," D murmured, feeling something empty and desperate claw at his ribcage. This story sounded dreadfully familiar.  
  
"Yeah," Stiles replied despondently. "In the middle of breakfast. One minute, we're having pancakes, just like this; the next…." Stiles choked, unable to continue. D stood up and walked around the dining room table, scooping Stiles into his arms.  
  
"I'm sorry," he whispered, feeling an all too familiar rush of grief clog up his throat.  
  
"S'not your fault," Stiles whispered back. "It haunted me for years. Why did Anna wait so long? Why did she change so fast? Was she really that heartless? It never made sense, until you told me about the Hunger."  
  
"What happened to the girl?"  
  
"Dad shot her in the head and burned the body," Stiles croaked. "I… she was right next to me. I got covered in blood. I, I--"  
  
"Shh." D cupped the back of Stiles' head. "You don't have to say any more. You've said enough."  
  
"Dad won't relent," Stiles said fiercely, pulling back to look D in the eye. "Not after what happened."  
  
"You have to try," D said, hating himself. He wished he could carry Stiles back to the train car and pretend the world wasn't burning. He wished that he could erase all of the wrong in Stiles' life, even if it included D, himself. But he knew he couldn't, and he knew that his cause was important enough to not try. "Everyone can change. Look at _me_. I know how it feels to lose something like that, but I know that grief isn't an endpoint. It's a transition."  
  
"Dammit, D," Stiles groaned, "you're not allowed to get poetic. You're gorgeous and brave and manly, and you don't get to be poetic, too. Okay? It's just not fair."  
  
Lydia and D laughed, and the tension was broken. "So, will you do it?" D asked.  
  
"I'll back you up," Lydia offered. "You know the Sheriff has a soft spot for me."  
  
"Yeah, yeah, okay," Stiles said, making shooing gestures with both hands. "If I die, burn all of the magazines under my mattress. All of them."  
  
D chuckled and Lydia wrinkled her nose. "Gross, Stiles. Why are we friends, again?"  
  
"Matt Damon," Stiles replied instantly, ducking when Lydia threw her shoe at him. "So, D, what's your plan?"  
  
"I'd like to come with you," D said. "I'll stay in the background, listen from afar. I'd like to know what we're dealing with."  
  
"Okay," Stiles said agreeably. "That's actually a pretty good idea. Just don't wolf out, okay?"  
  
"Duly noted," D said dryly.  
  
This was going to be interesting.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, fun fact, there's another TW/Warm Bodies crossover out there somewhere. How weird/cool/funny is that? I want to read it but, at the same time, I kind of need to keep my version of the story clear in my head. Maybe after I'm done writing this massive thing I'll pop over and check it out. :)
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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